University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 
MEMORIAL  FUND 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR 


BY 


INEZ  HAYNES  IRWIN 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,    I92O,    1921,   BY 
METROPOLITAN  PUBLICATIONS,    INC. 

COPYRIGHT,    1921,    BY 
HARCOURT,   BRACE  AND   COMPANY,   INC. 


THE  OUINN  ft  BODEN  COMPANY 
RAHWAY,     N.  J. 


TO 

BILLY  AND  PHYLLIS 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR 


".;  .  .  so  I'll  answer  your  questions  in  the  order 
you  ask  them.  No,  I  don't  want  ever  to  fly  again. 
My  last  pay-hop  was  two  Saturdays  ago  and  I 
got  my  discharge  papers  yesterday.  God  willing, 
I'll  never  again  ride  anything  more  dangerous 
than  a  velocipede.  I'm  now  a  respectable  Ameri- 
can citizen,  and  for  the  future  I'm  going  to  con- 
fine my  locomotion  to  the  well-known  earth.  Get 
that,  Spink  Sparrel!  The  earth!  In  fact  ..." 
David  Lindsay  suddenly  looked  up  from  his 
typewriting.  Under  his  window,  Washington 
Square  simmered  in  the  premature  heat  of  an 
early  June  day.  But  he  did  not  even  glance  in 
that  direction.  Instead,  his  eyes  sought  the  door- 
way leading  from  the  front  room  to  the  back  of 
the  apartment.  Apparently  he  was  not  seeking 
inspiration;  it  was  as  though  he  had  been  sud- 

3 


4  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

denly  jerked  out  of  himself.  After  an  absent 
second,  his  eye  sank  to  the  page  and  the  brisk 
clatter  of  his  machine  began  again. 

4<.  .  .  after  the  woman  you  recommended, 
Mrs.  Whatever-her-name-is,  shoveled  off  a  few 
tons  of  dust.  It's  great!  It's  the  key  house  of 
New  York,  isn't  it?  And  when  you  look  right 
through  the  Arch  straight  up  Fifth  Avenue,  you 
feel  as  though  you  owned  the  whole  town.  And 
what  an  air  all  this  chaste  antique  New  England 
stuff  gives  it!  Who'd  ever  thought  you'd  turn 
out — you  big  rough-neck  you — to  be  a  collector  of 
antiques?  Not  that  I  haven't  fallen  myself  for 
the  sailor's  chest  and  the  butterfly  table  and  the 
glass  lamps.  I  actually  salaam  to  that  sampler. 
And  these  furnishings  seem  especially  appropriate 
when  I  remember  that  Jeffrey  Lewis  lived  here 
once.  You  don't  know  how  much  that  adds  to  the 
connotation  of  this  place." 

Again — but  absently — Lindsay  looked  up. 
And  again,  ignoring  Washington  Square,  which 
offered  an  effect  as  of  a  formal  garden  to  the 
long  pink-red  palace  on  its  north  side — plumy 
treetops,  geometrical  grass  areas,  weaving  paths; 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  5 

elegant  little  summer-houses — his  gaze  went  with 
a  seeking  look  to  the  doorway. 

"  Question  No.  2.  I  haven't  any  plans  of  my 
own  at  present  and  I  am  quite  eligible  to  the  thing 
you  suggest.  You  say  that  no  one  wants  to  read 
anything  about  the  war.  I  don't  blame  them.  I 
wish  I  could  fall  asleep  for  a  month  and  wake  up 
with  no  recollection  of  it.  I  suppose  it's  that 
state  of  mind  which  prevents  people  from  writing 
their  recollections  immediately.  Of  course  we'll 
all  do  that  ultimately,  I  suppose — even  people 
who,  like  myself,  aren't  professional  writers. 
Don't  imagine  that  I'm  going  on  with  the  writing 
game.  I  haven't  the  divine  afflatus.  I'm  just  let- 
ting myself  drift  along  with  these  two  jobs  until 
I  get  that  guerre  out  of  my  system;  can  look 
around  to  find  what  I  really  want  to  do.  I'm 
willing  to  write  my  experiences  within  a  reason- 
able interval;  but  not  at  once.  Everything  is  as 
vivid  in  my  mind  of  course  as  it's  possible  to  be; 
but  I  don't  want  to  have  to  think  of  it.  That's 
why  your  suggestion  in  regard  to  Lutetia  Murray 
strikes  me  so  favorably.  I  should  really  like  to 
do  that  biography.  I'm  in  the  mood  for  some- 


6  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

thing  gentle  and  pastoral.  And  then  of  course 
I  have  a  sense  of  proprietorship  in  regard  to 
Lutetia,  not  alone  because  she  was  my  literary  find 
or  that  it  was  my  thesis  on  her  which  got  me 
my  A  in  English  12.  But,  in  addition,  I  devel- 
oped a  sort  of  platonic,  long-distance,  with-the- 
eye-of-the-mind-only  crush  on  her.  And  yet,  I 
don't  know  .  .  . " 

Again  Lindsay's  eyes  came  up  from  his  paper. 
For  the  third  time  he  ignored  Washington  Square 
swarming  with  lumbering  green  busses  and  dusky- 
haired  Italian  babies;  puppies,  perambulators, 
and  pedestrians.  Again  his  glance  went  mechani- 
cally to  the  door  leading  to  the  back  of  the  apart- 
ment. 

"  You  certainly  have  left  an  atmosphere  in  this 
joint,  Spink.  Somehow  I  feel  always  as  if  you 
were  in  the  room.  How  it  would  be  possible  for 
such  a  pop-eyed,  freckle-faced  Piute  as  you  to 
pack  an  astral  body  is  more  than  I  can  under- 
stand. It's  here  though — that  sense  of  your  pres- 
ence. The  other  day  I  caught  myself  saying,  *  Oh, 
Spink ! '  to  the  empty  air.  But  to  return  to 
Lutetia,  I  can't  tell  you  how  the  prospect  tempts. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  j 

Once  on  a  permission  in  the  spring  of  '16,  I  finds 
myself  in  Lyons.  There  are  to  be  gentle  acrobatic 
doings  in  the  best  Gallic  manner  in  the  Park  on 
Sunday.  I  gallops  out  to  see  the  sports.  One 
place,  I  comes  across  several  scores  of  poilus — 
on  their  permissions  similar — squatting  on  the 
ground  and  doing — what  do  you  suppose  ?  Pick- 
ing violets.  Yep — picking  violets.  I  says  to  my- 
self then,  I  says,  '  These  frogs  sure  are  queer 
guys.'  But  now,  Spink,  I  understand.  I  don't 
want  to  do  anything  more  strenuous  myself  than 
picking  violets,  unless  it's  selling  baby  blankets,  or 
holding  yarn  for  old  ladies.  Perhaps  by  an  enor- 
mous effort  I  might  summon  the  energy  to  run  a 
tea-room." 

Lindsay  stopped  his  typewriting  again.  This 
time  he  stared  fixedly  at  Washington  Square.  His 
eyes  followed  a  pink-smocked,  bob-haired  maiden 
hurrying  across  the  Park;  but  apparently  she  did 
not  register.  He  turned  abruptly  with  a — 
"  Hello,  old  top,  what  do  you  want?  " 

The  doorway,  being  empty,  made  no  answer. 

Having  apparently  forgotten  his  remark  the 
instant  it  was  dropped,  Lindsay  went  on  writing. 


8  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  I  admit  I'm  thinking  over  that  proposition. 
'Among  my  things  in  storage  here,  I  have  all 
Lutetia's  works,  including  those  unsuccessful  and 
very  rare  pomes  of  hers;  even  that  blooming 
thesis  I  wrote.  The  thesis  would,  of  course,  read 
rotten  now,  but  it  might  provide  data  that  would 
save  research.  When  do  you  propose  to  bring 
out  this  new  edition,  and  how  do  you  account  for 
that  recent  demand  for  her?  Of  course  it  estab- 
lishes me  as  some  swell  prophet.  I  always  said 
she'd  bob  up  again,  you  know.  Then  it  looked  as 
though  she  was  as  dead  as  the  dodo.  It  isn't  the 
work  alone  that  appeals  to  me;  it's  doing  it  in 
Lutetia's  own  town,  which  is  apparently  the  exact 
kind  of  dead  little  burg  I'm  looking  for — 
Quinanog,  isn't  it?  Come  to  think  of  it,  Spink, 
my  favorite  occupation  at  this  moment  would  be 
making  daisy-chains  or  oak-wreaths.  I'll  think 
it  .  .  ." 

He  jumped  spasmodically;  jerked  his  head 
about;  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  door- 
way— 

"  What  I'd  really  like  to  do,  is  the  biography 
of  Lutetia  for  about  one  month ;  then — for  about 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  9 

three  months — my  experiences  at  the  war  which, 
I  understand,  are  to  be  put  away  in  the  manu- 
script safe  of  the  publishing  firm  of  Dunbar, 
Cabot  and  Elsingham  to  be  published  when  the 
demand  for  war  stuff  begins  again.  That,  I 
reckon,  is  what  I  should  do  if  I'm  going  to  do 
it  at  all.  Write  it  while  it's  fresh — as  I'm  not  a 
professional.  But  I  can't  at  this  moment  say  yes, 
and  I  can't  say  no.  I'd  like  to  stay  a  little  longer 
in  New  York.  I'd  like  to  renew  acquaintance 
with  the  old  burg.  I  can  afford  to  thrash  round  a 
bit,  you  know,  if  I  like.  There's  ten  thousand 
dollars  that  my  uncle  left  me,  in  the  bank  waiting 
me.  When  that's  spent,  of  course  I'll  have  to 
go  to  work. 

"  You  ask  me  for  my  impressions  of  America — 
as  a  returned  sky-warrior.  Of  course  I've  only 
been  here  a  week  and  I  haven't  talked  with  so 
very  many  people  yet.  But  everybody  is  remark- 
ably omniscient.  I  can't  tell  them  anything  about 
the  late  war.  Sometimes  they  ask  me  a  question, 
but  they  never  listen  to  my  answer.  No,  I  listen 
to  them.  And  they're  very  informing,  believe  me. 
Most  of  them  think  that  the  cavalry  won  the  war 


TO  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

and  that  we  went  over  the  top  to  the  sound  of  fife 
and  drum.  For  myself  .  .  ." 

Again  he  jumped;  turned  his  head;  stared  into 
the  doorway.  After  an  instant  of  apparent  ex- 
pectancy, he  sighed.  He  arose  and,  with  an 
'elaborate  saunter,  moved  over  to  the  mirror  hang- 
ing above  the  mantel ;  looked  at  his  reflection  with 
the  air  of  one  longing  to  see  something  human. 
The  mirror  was  old;  narrow  and  dim;  gold 
framed.  A  gay  little  picture  of  a  ship,  bellying  to 
full  sail,  filled  the  space  above  the  looking-glass. 
The  face,  which  contemplated  him  with  the  same 
unseeing  carelessness  with  which  he  contemplated 
it,  was  the  face  of  twenty-five — handsome;  dark. 
It  was  long  and  lean.  The  continuous  flying  of 
two  years  had  dyed  it  a  deep  wine-red;  had 
bronzed  and  burnished  it.  And  apparently  the 
experiences  that  went  with  that  flying  had  cooled 
and  hardened  it.  It  was  now  but  a  smoothly 
handsome  mask  which  blanked  all  expression  of 
liis  emotions. 

Even  as  his  eye  fixed  itself  on  his  own  re- 
flected eye,  his  head  jerked  sideways  again;  he 
.stared  expectantly  at  the  open  doorway.  After 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  n 

an  interval  in  which  nothing  appeared,  he 
sauntered  through  that  door;  and — with  almost 
an  effect  of  premeditated  carelessness — through 
the  two  little  rooms,  which  so  uselessly  fill  the 
central  space  of  many  New  York  houses,  to  the 
big  sunny  bedroom  at  the  back. 

The  windows  looked  out  on  a  paintable  series 
of  backyards:  on  a  sketchable  huddle  of  old, 
stained,  leaning  wooden  houses.  JU  the  opposite 
window,  a  purple-haired,  violet-eyed  foreign  girl 
in  a  faded  yellow  blouse  was  making  artificial 
nasturtiums;  flame-colored  velvet  petals,  like  a 
drift  of  burning  snow,  heaped  the  table  in  front 
of  her.  A  black  cat  sunned  itself  on  the  window 
ledge.  On  a  distant  roof,  a  boy  with  a  long  pole 
was  herding  a  flock  of  pigeons.  They  made  glit- 
tering swirls  of  motion  and  quick  V-wheelings, 
that  flashed  the  gray  of  their  wings  like  blades 
and  the  white  of  their  breasts  like  glass.  Their 
sudden  turns  filled  the  air  with  mirrors.  Lindsay 
watched  their  flight  with  the  critical  air  of  a  rival. 
Suddenly  he  turned  as  though  someone  had  called 
him;  glanced  inquiringly  back  at  the  door- 
way .  .  . 


12  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

When,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  sauntered  into 
the  Rochambeau,  immaculate  in  the  old  gray  suit 
he  had  put  off  when  he  donned  the  French  uni- 
form four  years  before,  he  was  the  pink  of  sum- 
mer coolness  and  the  quintessence  of  military 
calm.  The  little,  low-ceilinged  series  of  rooms, 
just  below  the  level  of  the  street,  were  crowded; 
filled  with  smoke,  talk,  and  laughter.  Lindsay  at 
length  found  a  table,  looked  about  him,  discov- 
ered himself  to  be  among  strangers.  He  ordered 
a  cocktail,  swearing  at  the  price  to  the  sympathetic 
French  waiter,  who  made  excited  response  in 
French  and  assisted  him  to  order  an  elaborate 
dinner.  Lindsay  propped  his  paper  against  his 
water-glass;  concentrated  on  it  as  one  prepared 
for  lonely  eating.  With  the  little-necks,  how- 
ever, came  diversion.  From  behind  the  waiter's 
crooked  arm  appeared  the  satiny  dark  head  of  a 
girl.  Lindsay  leaped  to  his  feet,  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Good  Lord,  Gratia !  Where  in  the  world  did 
you  come  from !  " 

The  girl  put  both  her  pretty  hands  out.  "  I  can 
shake  hands  with  you,  David,  now  that  you're  in 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  13 

civics.  I  don't  like  that  green  and  yellow  ribbon 
in  your  buttonhole  though.  I'm  a  pacifist,  you 
know,  and  I've  got  to  tell  you  where  I  stand  be- 
fore we  can  talk." 

"  All  right,"  Lindsay  accepted  cheerfully. 
"  You're  a  darn  pretty  pacifist,  Gratia.  Of 
course  you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
But  as  long  as  you  talk  about  anything,  I'll 
listen." 

Gratia  had  cut  her  hair  short,  but  she  had 
introduced  a  style  of  hair-dressing  new  even  to 
Greenwich  Village.  She  combed  its  sleek  abun- 
dance straight  back  to  her  neck  and  left  it.  There, 
followmg  its  own  devices,  it  turned  up  in  the  most 
delightful  curls.  Her  large  dark  eyes  were  set 
in  a  skin  of  pale  amber  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
piquant  assortment  of  features.  She  had  a  way, 
just  before  speaking,  of  lifting  her  sleek  head 
high  on  the  top  of  her  slim  neck.  And  then  she 
was  like  a  beautiful  young  seal  emerging  from  the 
water. 

"  Oh,  I'm  perfectly  serious !  "  the  pretty  paci- 
fist asserted.  "  You  know  I  never  have  believed 
in  war.  Dora  says  you've  come  back  loving  the 


;i4  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

French.  How  you  can  admire  a  people  who — " 
After  a  while  she  paused  to  take  breath  and  then, 
with  the  characteristic  lift  of  her  head,  "  Belgians 
— the  Congo — Algeciras — Morocco —  And  as 
for  England — Ireland — India — Egypt — "  The 
glib,  conventional  patter  dripped  readily  from  her 
soft  lips. 

Lindsay  listened,  apparently  entranced. 
"  Gratia,  you're  too  pretty  for  any  use !  "  he 
asserted  indulgently  after  the  next  pause  in  which 
she  dove  under  the  water  and  reappeared  sleek- 
haired  as  ever.  "  I'm  not  going  to  argue  with 
you.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  one  thing  that  will  be 
a  shock  to  you,  though.  The  French  don't  like 
war  either.  And  the  reason  is — now  prepare 
yourself — they  know  more  about  the  horrors  of 
war  in  one  minute  than  you  will  in  a  thousand 
years.  What  are  you  doing  with  yourself,  these 
days,  Gratia?  " 

"  Oh,  running  a  shop ;  making  smocks,  working 
on  batiks,  painting,  writing  vers  libre"  Gratia 
admitted. 

"  I  mean,  what  do  you  do  with  your  leisure?  " 
Lindsay  demanded,  after  prolonged  meditation. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  15 

Gratia  ignored  this  persiflage.  u  I'm  thinking 
of  taking  up  psycho-analysis,"  she  confided.  "  It 
interests  me  enormously.  I  think  I  ought  to  do 
rather  well  with  it." 

"  I  offer  myself  as  your  first  victim.  Why, 
you'll  make  millions!  Every  man  in  New  York 
will  want  to  be  psyched.  What's  the  news, 
Gratia?  I'm  dying  for  gossip." 

Gratia  did  her  best  to  feed  this  appetite.  De-( 
clining  dinner,  she  sipped  the  tall  cool  green  drink 
which  Lindsay  ordered  for  her.  She  poured  out 
a  flood  of  talk;  but  all  the  time  her  eyes  were  flit- 
ting from  table  to  table.  And  often  she  inter- 
rupted her  comments  on  the  absent  with  remarks 
about  the  present. 

*  Yes,  Aussie  was  killed  in  Italy,  flying.  Will 
Arden  was  wounded  in  the  Argonne.  George 
Jennings  died  of  the  flu  in  Paris — see  that  big 
blonde  over  there,  Dave  ?  She's  the  Village  dress- 
maker now — Dark  Dale  is  in  Russia — can't  get 
out.  Putty  Doane  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Ger- 
mans at —  Oh,  see  that  gang  of  up-towners — 
aren't  they  snippy  and  patronizing  and  silly?  But 
Molly  Fearing  is  our  best  war  sensation.  You 


1 6  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

know  what  a  tiny  frightened  mouse  of  a  thing  she 
was.  She  went  into  the  4  Y.'  She  was  in  the 
trenches  the  day  of  the  Armistice — talked  with 
Germans ;  not  prisoners,  you  understand — but  the 
retreating  Germans.  Her  letters  are  wonderful. 
She's  crazy  about  it  over  there.  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised  if  she  never  came  back —  Oh,  Dave, 
don't  look  now;  but  as  soon  as  you  canv  get  that 
tall  red-headed  girl  in  the  corner,  Marie  Maroo. 
She  does  the  most  marvelous  drawings  you  ever 
saw.  She  belongs  to  that  new  Vortex  School. 
And  then  Joel —  Oh,  there's  Ernestine  Phillips 
and  her  father.  You  want  to  meet  her  father. 
He's  a  riot.  Octogenarian,  too !  He's  just  come 
from  some  remote  hamlet  in  Vermont.  Ernes- 
tine's showing  him  a  properly  expurgated  edi- 
tion of  the  Village.  Hi,  Ernestine  I  He's  a 
Civil  War  veteran.  Ernest's  crazy  to  see  you, 
Dave!" 

The  middle-aged,  rather  rough-featured 
woman  standing  in  the  doorway  turned  at 
Gratia's  call.  Her  movement  revealed  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  a  tall,  gaunt,  very  old  man,  a 
little  rough-featured  like  his  daughter;  white- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  17 

haired  and  white-mustached.  She  hurried  at  once 
to  Lindsay's  table. 

uOh,  Dave!"  She  took  both  Lindsay's 
hands.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you !  How  I  have 
worried  about  you !  My  father,  Dave.  Father, 
this  is  David  Lindsay,  the  young  aviator  I  was 
telling  you  about,  who  had  such  extraordinary  ex- 
periences in  France.  You  remember  the  one  I 
mean,  father.  He  served  for  two  years  with  the 
French  Army  before  we  declared  war." 

Mr.  Phillips  extended  a  long  arm  which 
dangled  a  long  hand.  u  Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir! 
You're  the  first  flier  I've  had  a  chance  to  talk  with. 
I  expect  folks  make  life  a  perfect  misery  to  you — 
but  if  you  don't  mind  answering  questions — " 

"Shoot!"  Lindsay  permitted  serenely.  "I'm 
nearly  bursting  with  suppressed  information. 
How  are  you,  Ernestine?  " 

"  Pretty  frazzled  like  the  rest  of  us,"  Ernestine 
answered.  Ernestine  had  one  fine  feature;  a  pair 
of  large  dark  serene  eyes.  Now  they  flamed  with 
a  troubled  fire.  u  The  war  did  all  kinds  of  things 
to  my  psychology,  of  course.  I  suppose  I  am  the 
most  despised  woman  in  the  Village  at  this 


1 8  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

moment  because  I  don't  seem  to  be  either  a  mili- 
tarist or  a  pacifist.  I  don't  believe  in  war,  but  I 
don't  see  how  we  could  have  kept  out  of  it;  or 
how  France  could  have  prevented  it." 

"  Ernestine  I  "  Lindsay  said  warmly.  "  I  just 
love  you.  Contrary  to  the  generally  accepted 
opinion  of  the  pacifists,  France  did  not  deliber- 
ately bring  this  war  on  herself.  Nor  did  she 
keep  it  up  four  years  for  her  private  amusement. 
She  hasn't  enjoyed  one  minute  of  it.  I  don't  ex- 
pect Gratia  to  believe  me,  but  perhaps  you  will. 
These  four  years  of  death,  destruction,  and  dev- 
astation haven't  entertained  France  a  particle." 

"  Well,  of  course — "  Ernestine  was  beginning, 
"but  what's  the  use?"  Her  eyes  met  Lindsay's 
in  a  perplexed,  comprehending  stare.  Lindsay 
shook  his  handsome  head  gayly.  "  No  use  what- 
ever," he  said.  "  I'm  rapidly  growing  taciturn." 

"  What  I  would  like  to  ask  you,"  Mr.  Phillips 
broke  in,  "  does  war  seem  such  a  pretty  thing  to 
you,  young  man,  after  you've  seen  a  little  of  it? 
I  remember  in  '65  most  of  us  came  back  thinking 
that  Sherman  hadn't  used  strong  enough  lan- 
guage." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  19 

"  Mr.  Phillips,"  Lindsay  answered,  "  if  there's 
ever  another  war,  it  will  take  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  to  send  me  a  postcard  telling  me  about  it." 

The  talk  drifted  away  from  the  war:  turned 
to  prohibition;  came  back  to  it  again.  Lindsay 
answered  Mr.  Phillips's  questions  with  enthusi- 
astic thoroughness.  They  pertained  mainly  to  his 
training  at  Pau  and  Avord,  but  Lindsay  volun- 
teered a  detailed  comparison  of  the  American 
military  method  with  the  French.  "  I'll  always 
be  glad  though,"  he  concluded,  "  that  I  had  that 
experience  with  the  French  Army.  And  of  course 
when  our  troops  got  over,  I  was  all  ready  to  fly." 

'*  Then  the  French  uniform  is  so  charming," 
Gratia  put  in,  consciously  sarcastic. 

Lindsay  slapped  her  slim  wrist  indulgently  and 
continued  to  answer  Mr.  Phillips's  questions. 
Ernestine  listened,  the  look  of  trouble  growing 
in  her  serene  eyes.  Gratia  listened,  diving  under 
water  after  her  shocked  exclamations  and  re- 
appearing glistening. 

"Oh,  there's  Matty  Packington!"  Gratia 
broke  in.  "  You  haven't  met  Matty  yet,  Dave. 
Hi,  Matty!  You  must  know  Matty.  She's  a 


20  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

sketch.  She's  one  of  those  people  who  say  the 
things  other  people  only  dare  think.  You  won't 
believe  her."  She  rattled  one  of  her  staccato 
explanations;  "  society  girl — first  a  slumming  tour 
through  the  Village — perfectly  crazy  about  it — 
studio  in  McDougal  Alley — yepwoman — becom- 
ing uniform — Rolls-Royce — salutes — " 

Matty  Packington  approached  the  table  with  a 
composed  flutter.  The  two  men  arose.  Gratia 
met  her  halfway;  performed  the  introductions. 
In  a  minute  the  conversation  was  out  of  every- 
body's hands  and  in  Miss  Packington's.  As 
Gratia  prophesied,  Lindsay  found  it  difficult  to 
believe  her.  She  started  at  an  extraordinary 
Speed  and  she  maintained  it  without  break. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Lindsay,  aren't  you  heartbroken 
now  that  it  is  all  over?  You  must  tell  me  all 
about  your  experiences  sometime.  It  must  have 
been  too  thrilling  for  words.  But  don't  you  think 
— don't  you  think — they  stopped  the  war  too 
soon?  If  I  were  Foch  I  wouldn't  have  been  satis- 
fied until  I'd  occupied  all  Germany,  devastated 
just  as  much  territory  as  those  beasts  devastated 
in  France,  and  executed  all  those  monsters  who  cut 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  21 

off  the  Belgian  babies'  hands.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

Lindsay  contemplated  the  lady  who  put  this 
interesting  question  to  him.  She  was  fair  and 
fairy-like;  a  little,  light-shot  golden  blonde;  all 
slim  lines  and  opalescent  colors.  Her  hair  flut- 
tered like  whirled  light  from  under  her  piquantly 
cocked  military  cap.  The  stress  of  her  emotion 
added  for  the  instant  to  the  bigness  and  blueness 
of  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  for  myself,"  he  remarked  finally,  "  I 
can  do  with  a  little  peace  for  a  while.  And  then 
to  carry  out  your  wishes,  Miss  Packington,  Foch 
would  have  had  to  sacrifice  a  quarter  of  a  million 
more  Allied  soldiers.  But  I  sometimes  think  the 
men  at  the  front  were  a  bit  thoughtless  of  the 
entertainment  of  the  civilians.  Somehow  we  did 
get  it  into  our  heads  that  we  ought  to  close  this 
war  up  as  soon  as  possible.  Another  time  per- 
haps we'd  know  better." 

Miss  Packington  received  this  characteristi- 
cally; that  is  to  say,  she  did  not  receive  it  at 
all.  For  by  the  time  Lindsay  had  begun  his  last 
sentence,  she  had  embarked  on  a  monologue  di- 


22  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

rected  this  time  to  Gratia.  The  talk  flew  back 
and  forth,  grew  general;  grew  concrete;  grew  ab- 
stract; grew  personal.  It  bubbled  up  into  mono- 
logues from  Gratia  and  Matty.  It  thinned  down 
to  questions  from  Ernestine  and  Mr.  Phillips. 
Drinks  came ;  were  followed  by  other  drinks.  All 
about  them,  tables  emptied  and  filled,  uniforms 
predominating;  and  all  to  the  accompaniment  of 
chatter;  gay  mirth;  drifting  smoke-films  and  re- 
filled glasses.  Late  comers  stopped  to  shake 
hands  with  Lindsay,  to  join  the  party  for  a  drink; 
to  smoke  a  cigarette;  floated  away  to  other  parties. 
But  the  nucleus  of  their  party  remained  the  same. 

David  answered  with  patience  all  questions, 
stopped  patiently  halfway  through  his  own 
answer  to  reply  to  other  questions.  At  about  mid- 
night he  rose  abruptly.  He  had  just  brought  to 
the  end  a  careful  and  succinct  statement  in  which 
he  declared  that  he  had  seen  no  Belgian  children 
with  their  hands  cut  off;  no  crucified  Canadians. 

"  Folks,"  he  addressed  the  company  genially, 
"  I'm  going  to  admit  to  you  I'm  tired."  In- 
wardly he  added,  "  I  won't  indicate  which  ones 
of  you  make  me  the  most  tired;  but  almost  all  of 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  23 

you  give  me  an  awful  pain."  He  added  aloud, 
"  It's  the  hay  for  me  this  instant  Good-night!  " 

Back  once  more  in  his  rooms,  he  did  not  light 
up.  Instead  he  sat  at  the  window  and  gazed  out. 
Straight  ahead,  two  lines  of  golden  beads  curving 
up  the  Avenue  seemed  to  connect  the  Arch  with 
the  distant  horizon.  The  deep  azure  of  the  sky 
was  faintly  powdered  with  stars.  But  for  its  oc- 
casional lights,  of  a  purplish  silver,  the  Square 
would  have  been  a  mere  mystery  of  trees.  But 
those  lights  seemed  to  anchor  what  was  half 
vision  to  earth.  And  they  threw  interlaced  leaf 
shadows  on  the  ceiling  above  Lindsay's  head.  It 
was  as  though  he  sat  in  some  ghostly  bower. 
Looking  fixedly  through  the  Arch,  his  face  grew 
somber.  Suddenly  he  jerked  about  and  stared 
through  the  doorway  which  led  into  the  back 
rooms. 

Nothing  appeared — 

After  a  while  he  lighted  one  gas  jet — after  an 
instant's  hesitation  another — 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  Lindsay  suddenly 
found  himself  sitting  upright.  His  mouth  was 


24  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

wide  open,  parched;  his  eyes  were  wide  open, 
staring  ...  A  chilly  prickling  tingled  along  his 
scalp  .  .  .  But  the  strangest  phenomenon  was  his 
heart,  which,  though  swelled  to  an  incredible  bulk, 
nimbly  leaped,  heavily  pounded  .  .  . 

Lindsay  recognized  the  motion  which  inundated 
him  to  be  fear;  overpowering,  shameless,  abject 
fear.  But  of  what?  In  the  instant  in  which  he 
gave  way  to  self-analysis,  memory  supplied  him 
with  a  vague  impression.  Something  had  come 
to  his  bed  and,  leaning  over,  had  stared  into  his 
face — 

That  something  was  not  human. 

Lindsay  fought  for  control.  By  an  initial  feat 
of  courage,  his  fumbling  fingers  lighted  a  candle 
which  stood  on  the  tiny  Sheraton  table  at  his  bed- 
side. On  a  second  impulse,  but  only  after  an 
interval  in  which  consciously  but  desperately  he 
grasped  at  his  vanishing  manhood,  he  leaped  out 
of  bed;  lighted  the  gas.  Then  carrying  the 
lighted  candle,  he  went  from  one  to  another  of 
the  four  rooms  of  the  apartment.  In  each  room 
he  lighted  every  gas  jet  until  the  place  blazed. 
He  searched  it  thoroughly:  dark  corners  and 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  25 

darker  closets;  jetty  strata  of  shadow  under 
couches. 

He  was  alone. 

After  a  while  he  went  back  to  bed.  But  his 
courage  was  not  equal  to  darkness  again. 
Though  ultimately  he  fell  asleep,  the  gas  blazed 
all  night. 

Lindsay  awoke  rather  jaded  the  next  morning. 
He  wandered  from  room  to  room  submitting  to 
one  slash  of  his  razor  at  this  mirror  and  to  an- 
other at  that. 

At  one  period  of  this  process,  "  Rum  night- 
mare I  had  last  night!  "  he  remarked  casually  to 
the  unresponsive  air. 

He  cooked  his  own  breakfast;  piled  up  the 
dishes  and  settled  himself  to  his  correspondence 
again.  "  This  letter  is  getting  to  be  a  book, 
Spink,"  he  began.  "  But  I  feel  every  moment  as 
though  I  wanted  to  add  more.  I  slept  on  your 
proposition  last  night,  but  I  don't  feel  any  nearer 
a  decision.  Quinanog  and  Lutetia  tempt  me ;  but 
then  so  does  New  York.  By  the  way,  have  you 
any  pictures  of  Lutetia  ?  I  had  one  in  my  rooms 


26  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

at  Holworthy.  Must  be  kicking  around  among 
my  things.  I  cut  it  out  of  the  annual  catalogue 
of  your  book-house.  Photograph  as  I  remember. 
She  was  some  pip.  I'd  like — " 

He  started  suddenly,  turned  his  head  toward 
the  doorway  leading  to  the  back  rooms.  The 
doorway  was  empty.  Lindsay  arose  from  his 
chair,  sauntered  in  a  leisurely  manner  through 
the  rooms.  He  investigated  closets  again. 
"  Damn  it  all!  "  he  muttered. 

He  resumed  his  letter.  "  You're  right  about 
writing  my  experiences  now.  I  had  a  long  foot- 
less talk  with  some  boobs  last  night,  and  it  was 
curious  how  things  came  back  under  their  ques- 
tions. I  had  quite  forgotten  them  temporarily, 
and  of  course  I  shall  forget  them  for  keeps  if 
I  don't  begin  to  put  them  down.  I  have  a  few 
scattered  notes  here  and  there.  I  meant,  of 
course,  to  keep  a  diary,  but  believe  me,  a  man 
engaged  in  a  war  is  too  busy  for  the  pursuit  of 
letters.  But  just  as  soon  as  I  make  up  my 
mind—" 

Another  interval.  Absently  Lindsay  addressed 
an  envelope.  Spinney  K.  Sparrel,  Esq.,  Park 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  27 

Street,  Boston;  attacked  the  list  of  other  long- 
neglected  correspondents.  Suddenly  his  head 
jerked  upward;  pivoted  again.  After  an  in- 
stant's observation  of  the  empty  doorway,  he 
pulled  his  face  forward;  resumed  his  work.  Page 
after  page  slid  onto  the  roller  of  his/  machine, 
submitted  to  the  tattoo  of  its  little  lettered  teeth, 
emerged  neatly  inscribed.  Suddenly  he  leaped  to 
his  feet;  swung  about. 

The  doorway  was  empty. 

4  Who  are  you?"  he  interrogated  the  empty 
air,  "  and  what  do  you  want?  If  you  can  tell  me, 
speak — and  I'll  do  anything  in  my  power  to  help 
you.  But  if  you  can't  tell  me,  for  God's  sake  go 
away!  " 

That  night — it  happened  again.  There  came 
the  same  sudden  start,  stricken,  panting,  perspir- 
ing, out  of  deep  sleep;  the  same  frantic  search 
of  the  apartment  with  all  the  lights  burning;  the 
same  late,  broken  drowse;  the  same  jaded 
awakening. 

As  before,  he  set  himself  doggedly  to  work. 
And,  as  before,  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the 


28  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

morning,  he  wheeled  about  swiftly  in  his  chair  to 
glare  through  the  open  doorway.  "  I  wonder 
if  I'm  going  nutty!  "  he  exclaimed  aloud. 

Three  days  went  by.  Lindsay's  nights  were  so 
broken  that  he  took  long  naps  in  the  afternoon. 
His  days  had  turned  into  periods  of  idle  revery. 
The  letter  to  Spink  Sparrel  was  still  unfinished. 
He  worked  spasmodically  at  his  typewriter:  but 
he  completed  nothing.  The  third  night  he  started 
toward  the  Rochambeau  with  the  intention  of 
getting  a  room.  But  halfway  across  the  Park,  he 
stopped  and  retraced  his  steps.  "  I  can't  let  you 
beat  me!  "  he  muttered  audibly,  after  he  arrived 
in  the  empty  apartment. 

It  did  not  beat  him  that  night;  for  he  stayed 
in  the  apartment  until  dawn  broke.  But  from  mid- 
night on,  he  lay  with  every  light  in  the  place 
going.  At  sunrise,  he  dressed  and  went  out  for  a 
walk.  And  the  moment  the  sounds  of  everyday 
life  began  to  humanize  the  neighborhood,  he  re- 
turned; sat  down  to  his  machine. 

"  Spink,  old  dear,  my  mind  is  made  up.  I  ac- 
cept! I'll  do  Lutetia  for  you;  and,  by  God,  I'll 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  29 

do  her  well!  I'm  starting  for  Boston  tomorrow 
night  on  the  midnight.  I'll  call  at  the  office  about 
noon  and  we'll  go  to  luncheon  together.  I'll  dig 
out  my  thesis  and  books  from  storage,  and  if 
you'll  get  all  your  dope  and  data  together,  I  can 
go  right  to  it.  I'm  going  to  Quinanog  tomorrow 
afternoon.  I  need  a  change.  Everybody  here 
makes  me  tired.  The  pacifists  make  me  wild  and 
the  militarists  make  me  wilder.  Civilians  is  nuts 
when  it  comes  to  a  war.  The  only  person  I  can 
talk  about  it  with  is  somebody  who's  been  there. 
And  anybody  who's  been  there  has  the  good  sense 
not  to  want  to  talk  about  it.  I  don't  ever  want  to 
hear  of  that  war  again.  Personally,  I,  David 
Lindsay,  meaning  me,  want  to  swing  in  a  ham- 
mock on  a  pleasant,  cool,  vine-hung  piazza ;  read 
Lutetia  at  intervals  and  write  some  little  pieces 
subsequent.  Yours,  David.1* 


II 

SUSANNAH  AVER  dragged  herself  out  of  her  sleep- 
less night  and  started  to  get  up.  But  halfway 
through  her  first  rising  motion,  something  seemed 
to  leave  her — to  leave  her  spirit  rather  than  her 
body.  She  collapsed  in  a  droop-shouldered 
huddle  onto  the  bed.  Her  red  hair  had  come 
out  of  its  thick  braids;  it  streamed  forward  over 
her  white  face;  streaked  her  nightgown  with 
glowing  strands.  She  pushed  it  out  of  her  eyes 
and  sat  for  a  long  interval  with  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Finally  she  rose  and  went  to  the  dresser. 
Haggardly  she  stared  into  the  glass  at  her  reflec- 
tion, and  haggardly  her  reflection  stared  back  at 
her.  "  I  don't  wonder  you  look  different,  Glori- 
ous Susie,"  she  addressed  herself  wordlessly, 
"  because  you  are  different.  I  wonder  if  you  can 
ever  wash  away  that  experience — " 

She  poured  water  into  the  basin  until  it  almost 
brimmed;  and  dropped  her  face  into  it.     After 

>  30 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  31 

her  sponge  bath,  she  contemplated  herself  again 
in  the  glass.  Some  color  had  crept  into  the  pearly 
whiteness  of  her  cheek.  Her  dark-fringed  eyes 
seemed  a  little  less  shadow-encircled.  She  turned 
their  turquoise  glance  to  the  picture  of  a  woman 
— a  miniature  painted  on  ivory — which  hung  be- 
side the  dfesser. 

"  Glorious  Lutie,"  she  apostrophized  it,  "  you 
don't  know  how  I  wish  you  were  here.  You 
don't  know  how  much  I  need  you  now.  I  need 
you  so  much,  Glorious  Lutie — I'm  frightened!" 

The  miniature,  after  the  impersonal  manner  of 
pictures,  made  no  response  to  this  call  for  help. 
Susannah  sighed  deeply.  And  for  a  moment  she 
stood  a  figure  almost  tragic,  her  eyes  darkening 
as  she  looked  into  space,  her  young  mouth  setting 
its  soft  scarlet  into  hard  lines.  In  another  mo- 
ment she  pulled  herself  out  of  this  daze  and  con- 
tinued her  dressing. 

An  hour  and  a  half  later,  when,  cool  and  lithe 
in  her  blue  linen  suit,  she  entered  the  uptown  sky- 
scraper which  housed  the  Carbonado  Mining 
'Company,  her  spirits  took  a  sudden  leap.  After 
all,  here  was  help.  It  was  not  the  help  she  mest 


32  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

-desired  and  needed — the  confidence  and  advice  of 
another  woman — but  at  least  she  would  get  in- 
stant sympathy,  ultimate  understanding. 

Anyone,  however  depressed  his  mood,  must 
have  felt  his  spirits  rise  as  he  stepped  into  the 
Admolian  Building.  It  was  so  new  that  its  terra- 
cotta walls  without,  its  white-enameled  tiling 
within,  seemed  always  to  have  been  freshly 
scrubbed  and  dusted.  It  was  so  high  that,  with  a 
first  acrobatic  impulse,  it  leaped  twenty  stories 
above  ground;  and  with  a  second,  soared  into  a 
tower  which  touched  the  clouds.  That  had  not 
exhausted  its  strength.  It  dug  in  below  ground, 
and  there  spread  out  into  rooms,  eternally  electric- 
lighted.  From  the  eleventh  story  up,  its  wide 
windows  surveyed  every  purlieu  of  Manhattan. 
Its  spacious  elevators  seemed  magically  to  defy 
gravitation.  A  touch  started  their  swift  flight 
heavenward;  a  touch  started  their  soft  drop 
earthward.  Every  floor  housed  offices  where  for- 
tunes were  being  made — and  lost — at  any  rate, 
changing  hands.  There  was  an  element  of  buoy- 
ancy in  the  air,  an  atmosphere  of  success.  People 
moved  more  quickly,  talked  more  briskly,  from 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  33 

the  moment  they  entered  the  Admolian  Building, 
As  always,  it  raised  the  spirits  of  Susannah  Ayer. 
The  set  look  vanished  from  her  eyes;  some  of 
their  normal  brilliancy  flowed  back  into  them. 
Her  mouth  relaxed  —  When  the  elevator  came 
to  a  padded  halt  at  the  eighteenth  floor,  she  had 
become  almost  herself  again. 

She  stopped  before  the  first  in  a  series  of 
offices.  Black-printed  letters  on  the  ground  glass 
of  the  door  read: 


Carbonado  Mining  Company 
Private.    Enter  No.  4.7 

An  accommodating  hand  pointed  in  the  direction? 
of  No.  47.  Susannah  unlocked  the  door  and  with 
a  little  sigh,  as  of  relief,  stepped  in. 

Other  offices  stretched  along  the  line  of  the 
corridor,  bearing  the  inscriptions,  respectively, 
"  No.  48,  H.  Withington  Warner,  President  and 
General  Manager;  No.  49,  Joseph  Byan,  Vice- 
President;  No.  50,  Michael  O'Hearn,  Secretary 
and  Treasurer."  Ultimately,  Susannah's  own 


34  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

door  would  flaunt  the  proud  motto,  "No.  51, 
Susannah  Ayer,  Manager  Women's  Depart- 
ment." 

Susanah  threaded  the  inner  corridor  to  her  own 
office.  She  hung  up  her  hat  and  jacket;  opened 
her  mail;  ran  through  it.  Then  she  lifted  the 
cover  from  her  typewriter  and  began  mechanically 
to  brush  and  oil  it.  Her  mind  was  not  on  her 
work;  it  had  not  been  on  the  letters.  It  kept 
speeding  back  to  last  night.  She  did  not  want  to 
think  of  last  night  again — at  least  not  until  she 
must.  She  pulled  her  thoughts  into  her  control; 
made  them  flow  back  over  the  past  months.  And 
as  they  sped  in  those  pleasant  channels,  involun- 
tarily her  mood  went  with  them.  Had  any  girl 
ever  been  so  fortunate,  she  wondered.  She  put  it 
to  herself  in  simple  declaratives — 

Here  she  was,  all  alone  in  New  York  and  in 
New  York  for  the  first  time,  settled — interestingly 
and  pleasantly  settled.  Eight  months  before,  she 
had  stepped  out  of  business  college  without  a  hun- 
dred dollars  in  the  world;  her  course  in  stenog- 
raphy, typewriting,  and  secretarial  work  had 
taken  the  last  of  her  inherited  funds.  Without 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  35 

kith  or  kin,  she  was  a  working-woman,  now,  on 
her  own  responsibility.  Two  months  of  appren- 
ticeship, one  stenographer  among  fifty,  in  the 
great  offices  of  the  Maxwell  Mills,  and  Barry 
Joyce,  almost  the  sole  remaining  friend  who  re- 
membered the  past  glories  of  her  family,  had  ad- 
vised her  to  try  New  York. 

"  Susannah,"  he  said,  "  now  is  the  time  to  strike 
• — now  while  the  men  are  away  and  while  the  girls 
are  still  on  war  jobs.  Get  yourself  entrenched  be- 
fore they  come  back.  You've  the  makings  of  a 
wonderful  office  helper." 

Susannah,  with  a  glorious  sense  of  adventure 
once  she  was  started,  took  his  advice  and  moved 
to  New  York.  For  a  week,  she  answered  adver- 
tisements, visited  offices;  and  she  found  that  Barty 
was  right.  She  had  the  refusal  of  half  a  dozen 
jobs.  From  them  she  selected  the  offer  of  the 
Carbonado  Mining  Company — partly  because  she 
liked  Mr.  Warner,  and  partly  because  it  seemed 
to  offer  the  best  future.  Mr.  Warner  said  to  her 
in  their  first  interview: 

:t  We  are  looking  for  a  clever  woman  whom  we 
can  specially  train  in  the  methods  of  our  some- 


36  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

what  peculiar  business.  If  you  qualify,  we  shall 
advance  you  to  a  superior  position." 

That  u  superior  position  "  had  fallen  into  her 
hand  like  a  ripe  peach.  Within  a  week,  Mr, 
Warner  had  called  her  into  the  private  office  for 
a  long  business  talk. 

14  Miss  Ayer,"  he  said,  "  you  seem  to  be  mak- 
ing good.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  frankly  that  if 
you  continue  to  meet  our  requirements,  we  shall 
continue  to  advance  you  and  pay  you  accordingly. 
You  see,  our  business — "  Mr.  Warner's  voice 
always  swelled  a  little  when  he  said  "  our  busi- 
ness " — "  our  business  involves  a  great  deal  of 
letter-writing  to  women  investors  and  some  per- 
sonal interviews.  Now  we  believe — both  Mr. 
Byan  and  I — that  women  investing  money  like  to 
deal  with  one  of  their  own  sex.  We  have  been 
looking  for  just  the  right  woman.  A  candidate 
for  the  position  must  have  tact,  understanding, 
and  clearness  of  written  expression.  We  have 
been  trying  to  find  such  a  woman;  and  frankly, 
the  search  has  been  difficult.  You  know  how  war 
work — quite  rightly,  of  course — has  monopo- 
lized the  able  women  of  the  country.  We  have 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  37 

tried  out  half  a  dozen  girls;  but  the  less  said 
about  them  the  better.  For  two  weeks  we  will 
let  you  try  your  hand  at  correspondence  with 
women  investors.  If  your  work  is  satisfactory, 
it  means  a  permanent  job  at  twice  your  present 
salary." 

Her  work  had  pleased  them!  It  had  pleased 
them  instantly.  But  oh,  how  she  had  worked  to 
please  them  and  to  continue  to  please!  Every 
letter  she  sent  out — and  after  explaining  the  Car- 
bonado Company  and  its  attractions,  Mr.  Warner 
let  her  compose  all  the  letters  to  women — was  a 
study  in  condensed  and  graceful  expression.  At 
the  end  of  the  fortnight  Mr.  Warner  engaged  her 
permanently.  He  went  even  further.  He  said : 

"  Miss  Ayer,  we're  going  to  make  you  manager 
of  our  women's  department;  and  we're  going  to 
put  your  name  with  ours  on  the  letterhead  of  the 
new  office  stationery."  When  the  day  came  that 
she  first  signed  herself  "  Susannah  Ayer,  Manager 
Women's  Department,"  she  felt  as  though  all  the 
fairy  tales  she  ever  read  had  come  true. 

Susannah,  as  she  was  assured  again  and  again^ 
continued  to  give  satisfaction.  No  wonder;  for 


38  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

she  liked  her  job.  The  work  interested  her  so 
much  that  she  always  longed  to  get  to  the  office  in 
the  morning,  almost  hated  to  leave  it  at  night. 
It  was  a  pleasant  office,  bright  and  spacious. 
Everything  was  new,  even  to  the  capacious  waste 
basket.  Her  big,  shiny  mahogany  desk  stood 
close  to  the  window.  And  from  that  window  she 
surveyed  the  colorful,  brick-and-stone  West  Side 
of  Manhattan,  the  Hudson,  and  the  city-spotted, 
town-dotted  stretches  beyond.  The  clouds  hung 
close;  sometimes  their  white  and  silver  argosies 
seemed  to  besiege  her.  Once,  she  almost  thought 
the  new  moon  would  bounce  through  her  window. 
Snow  noiselessly,  winds  tumultuously,  assailed 
her;  but  she  sat  as  impervious  as  though  in  an 
enchanted  tower.  Gray  days  made  only  a  suaver 
magic,  thunderstorms  a  madder  enchantment, 
about  her  eyrie. 

The  human  surroundings  were  just  as  pleasant. 
Though  the  Carbonado  Company  worked  only 
with  selected  clients,  though  they  transacted  most 
of  their  business  by  mail,  there  were  many  visitors 
— some  customers;  others,  apparently,  merely 
friends  of  Mr.  Warner,  Mr.  Byan,  and  Mr. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  39 

O'Hearn — who  dropped  in  of  afternoons  to  chat 
a  while.  Pleasant,  jolly  men  most  of  these. 
Snatches  of  their  talk,  usually  enigmatic, 
floated  to  her  across  the  tops  of  the  partitions;  it 
gave  the  office  an  exciting  atmosphere  of  some- 
thing doing.  And  then — it  happened  that  Susan- 
nah's way  of  life  had  brought  her  into  contact 
with  but  few  men — everything  was  so  manny. 

She  stood  a  little  in  awe  of  H.  Withington 
Warner,  president  and  general  manager.  Mr. 
Warner  was  middle-aged  and  iron-gray.  That 
last  adjective  perfectly  described  him — iron-gray. 
Everything  about  him  was  gray;  his  straight, 
thick  hair;  his  clear,  incisive  eyes;  even  his  color- 
less skin.  And  his  personality  had  a  quality  of 
iron.  There  was  about  him  a  fascinating  element 
of  duality.  Sometimes  he  seemed  to  Susannah  a 
little  like  a  clergyman.  And  sometimes  he  made 
her  think  of  an  actor.  This  histrionic  aspect,  she 
decided,  was  due  to  his  hair,  a  bit  long;  to  his 
features,  floridly  classic;  to  his  manner,  frequently 
courtly;  to  his  voice,  occasionally  oratorical. 
This,  however,  showed  only  in  his  lighter  mo- 
ments. Much  of  the  time,  of  course,  he  was 


40  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

merely  brisk  and  businesslike.  Whatever  his 
tone,  it  carried  you  along.  To  Susannah,  he  was 
always  charming. 

If  she  stood  a  little  in  awe  of  H.  Withington 
Warner,  she  made  up  by  feeling  on  terms  of  the 
utmost  equality  with  Michael  O'Hearn,  secretary 
and  treasurer  of  the  Carbonado  Mining  Com- 
pany. Mr.  O'Hearn — the  others  called  him 
44  Mike  " — was  a  little  Irishman.  He  had  a 
short  stumpy  figure  and  a  short  stumpy 
face.  Moreover,  he  looked  as  though 
someone  had  delivered  him  a  denting  blow 
in  the  middle  of  his  profile.  From  this  indenta- 
tion jutted  in  one  direction  his  long,  protuberant, 
rounded  forehead;  peaked  in  another  his  up- 
turned nose.  The  rest  of  him  was  sandy  hair 
and  sandy  complexion,  and  an  agreeable  pair  of 
long-lashed  Irish  eyes.  He  was  the  wit  of  the 
office,  keeping  everyone  in  constant  good  temper. 
Susannah  felt  very  friendly  toward  Mr.  O'Hearn. 
This  was  strange,  because  he  rarely  spoke  to  her. 
But  somehow,  for  all  that,  he  had  the  gift  of 
seeming  friendly.  Susannah  trusted  him  as  she 
trusted  Mr.  Warner,  though  in  a  different  way. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  41 

In  regard  to  Joseph  Byan,  the  third  member 
of  the  combination,  Susannah  had  her  unformu- 
lated  reservations.  Perhaps  it  was  because  Byan 
really  interested  her  more  than  the  other  two. 
Byan  was  little  and  slender;  perfectly  formed  and 
rather  fine-featured;  swift  as  a  cat  in  his  darting 
movements.  In  his  blue  eyes  shone  a  look  of 
vague  pathos  and  on  his  lips  floated — Susannah 
decided  that  this  was  the  only  way  to  express  it — 
a  vague,  a  rather  sweet  smile.  Susannah's  job 
had  not  at  first  brought  her  as  much  into  contact 
with  Mr.  Byan  as  with  Mr.  Warner.  His  work, 
she  learned,  lay  mostly  outside  of  the  office.  But 
once,  during  her  third  week,  he  had  come  into  her 
office  and  dictated  a  letter;  had  lingered,  when  he 
had  finished  with  the  business  in  hand,  for  a  little 
talk.  The  conversation,  in  some  curious  turn, 
veered  to  the  subject  of  firearms.  He  was  speak- 
ing of  the  various  patterns  of  revolvers.  He 
stood  before  her,  a  slim,  perfectly  proportioned 
figure  whose  clothes,  of  an  almost  feminine  nicety 
and  cut,  seemed  to  follow  every  line  of  the  body 
beneath.  Suddenly,  one  of  his  slight  hands  made 
a  swift  gesture.  There  appeared — from  where, 


42  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

she  could  not  guess — a  little,  ugly-looking  black 
revolver.  With  it,  he  illustrated  his  point. 
Since,  he  had  never  passed  through  the  office  with- 
out Susannah's  glance  playing  over  him  like  a 
flame.  Nowhere  along  the  smooth  lines  of  his 
figure  could  she  catch  the  bulge  of  that  little  toy 
of  death.  Despite  his  suave  gentleness,  there  was 
a  believable  quality  about  Byan;  his  personality 
carried  conviction,  just  as  did  that  of  the  others. 
Susannah  trusted  him,  too ;  but  again  in  a  different 
way. 

On  the  very  day  when  Mr.  Byan  showed  her 
the  revolver,  she  was  passing  the  open  door  of 
Mr.  Warner's  office;  and  she  heard  the  full, 
round  voice  of  the  Chief  saying: 

"  Remember,  Joe,  rule  number  one :  no  clients 
or  employ — "  Byan  hastily  closed  the  door  on 
the  tail  of  that  sentence.  Sometimes  she  won- 
dered how  it  ended. 

A  cog  in  the  machine,  Susannah  had  never  fully 
understood  the  business.  That  was  not  really 
necessary;  Mr.  Warner  himself  kept  her  in- 
formed on  what  she  needed  to  know.  He  ex- 
plained in  the  beginning  the  glorious  opportunity 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  43 

for  investors.  From  time  to  time,  he  added  new 
'details,  as  for  example  the  glowing  reports  of 
their  chief  engineer  or  their  special  expert. 
Susannah  knew  that  they  were  paying  three  per 
cent  dividends  a  month — and  in  April  there  was 
a  special  dividend  of  two  per  cent.  Besides,  they 
were  about  to  break  into  a  "  mother  lode  " — the 
reports  of  their  experts  proved  that — and  when 
that  happened,  no  one  could  tell  just  how  high  the 
dividends  might  be.  True,  these  dividend  pay- 
ments were  often  made  a  little  irregularly.  One 
of  the  things  which  Susannah  did  not  understand, 
did  not  try  to  understand,  was  why  a  certain  list 
of  preferred  stockholders  was  now  and  then  given 
an  extra  dividend;  nor  why  at  times  Mr.  Warner 
would  transfer  a  name  from  one  list  to  another. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  saving  my  money  and  invest- 
ing myself  in  Carbonado  stock!"  said  Susannah 
to  Mr.  Warner  one  day. 

"Don't,"  said  Mr.  Warner;  and  then  with  a 
touch  of  his  clerical  manner:  "  We  prefer  to  keep 
our  office  force  and  our  investors  entirely  sepa- 
rate factors  for  the  present.  We  are  trying  to 
avoid  the  reproach  of  letting  our  people  in  on  the 


44  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

ground  floor.  When  our  ship  comes  in — when  we 
open  the  mother  lode — you  shall  be  taken  care 
of!" 

So,  for  six  months,  everything  went  perfectly. 
Susannah  had  absorbed  herself  completely  in  her 
job.  This  was  an  easy  thing  to  do  when  the 
business  was  so  fascinating.  She  had  gone  for 
five  months  at  this  pace  when  she  realized  that 
she  had  not  taken  the  leisure  to  make  friends. 
Except  the  three  partners — mere  shadows  to  her 
— and  the  people  at  her  boarding-house — also 
mere  shadows  to  her — she  knew  only  Eloise. 
Not  that  the  friendship  of  Eloise  was  a  thing  to 
pass  over  lightly.  Eloise  was  a  host  in  herself. 

They  had  met  at  the  Dorothy  Dorr,  a  semi- 
tharitable  home  for  young  business  women,  at 
which  Susannah  stayed  during  her  first  week  in 
New  York.  Eloise  was  an  heiress,  of  that  species 
known  to  the  newspapers  as  a  "  society  girl." 
Pretty,  piquant,  gay,  extravagant,  she  dabbled  in 
picturesque  charities,  and  the  Dorothy  Dorr  was 
her  pet.  Sometimes  in  the  summer,  when  she  ran 
up  to  town,  she  even  lodged  there.  By  natural 
affinity,  she  had  picked  Susannah  out  of  the  crowd. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  45 

By  the  time  Susannah  was  established  in  her  new 
job  and  had  moved  to  a  boarding-house,  they  had 
become  friends.  But  the  friendship  of  Eloise 
could  not  be  very  satisfactory.  She  was  too  busy; 
and,  indeed,  too  often  out  of  town.  From  her 
social  fastnesses,  she  made  sudden,  dashing  forays 
on  Susannah;  took  her  to  luncheon,  dinner,  or  the 
theater;  then  she  would  retreat  to  upper  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  Susannah  would  not  see  her  for  a 
fortnight  or  a  month. 

Then,  that  terrible,  perplexing  yesterday.  If 
she  could  only  expunge  yesterday  from  her  life — 
or  at  least  from  her  memory ! 

Of  course,  there  were  events  leading  up  to  yes- 
terday. Chief  among  them  was  the  appearance  in 
the  office,  some  weeks  before,  of  Mr.  Ozias 
Cowler,  from  Iowa.  Mr.  Cowler,  Susannah  gath- 
ered from  the  manner  of  the  office,  was  a  customer 
of  importance.  He  was  middle-aged.  No,  why 
mince  matters — he  was  an  old  man  who  looked 
middle-aged.  He  was  old,  because  his  hair  had 
gone  quite  white,  and  his  face  had  fallen  into 
areas  broken  by  wrinkles.  But  he  appeared  to  the 
first  glance  middle-aged,  because  the  skin  of  those 


46  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

areas  was  ruddy  and  warm;  because  his  eyes 
were  as  clear  and  blue  as  in  youth.  He  looked 
— well,  Susannah  decided  that  he  looked  fatherly. 
He  was  quiet  in  his  step  and  quiet  in  his  manner. 
Though  he  appeared  to  her  in  the  light  of  a  cus- 
tomer rather  than  that  of  an  acquaintance, 
Susannah  was  inclined  to  like  him,  as  she  liked 
everyone  and  everything  about  the  Carbonado 
offices. 

Susannah  gathered  in  time  that  Mr.  Cowler 
had  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  that  he  had  come 
to  New  York  to  invest  it.  Of  course  the  Carbon- 
ado Mining  Company — and  this  included  Susan- 
nah herself — saw  the  best  of  reasons  why  it 
should  be  invested  with  them.  But  evidently,  he 
was  a  hard,  cautious  customer.  He  came  again 
and  again.  He  sat  closeted  for  long  intervals 
with  Mr.  Warner.  Sometimes  Mr.  Byan  came 
into  these  conferences.  Mr.  Cowler  was  always 
going  to  luncheon  with  the  one  and  to  dinner  with 
the  other.  He  even  went  to  a  baseball  game 
with  Mr.  O'Hearn.  But,  although  he  visited  the 
office  more  and  more  frequently,  she  gathered  that 
the  investment  was  not  forthcoming.  Susannah 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  47 

knew  how  frequently  he  was  coming  because,  in 
spite  of  the  little,  admonitory  black  hand  on  the 
ground-glass  door,  he  always  entered,  not  by  the 
reception  room,  but  by  her  office.  Usually,  he  pre- 
ceded his  long  talk  with  Mr.  Warner  by  a  little 
chat  with  her.  Evidently,  he  had  not  yet  caught 
the  quick  gait  of  New  York  business;  for  as  he 
left — again  through  Susannah's  office — he  would 
stop  for  a  longer  talk.  Once  or  twice,  Susannah 
had  to  excuse  herself  in  order  to  go  on  with  her 
work.  She  had  been  a  little  afraid  that  Mr. 
Warner  would  comment  on  these  delays  in  office 
routine.  But,  although  Mr.  Warner  once  or  twice 
glanced  into  her  office  during  these  intervals,  he 
never  interfered. 

Then  came — yesterday. 
Early  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Warner  said : 
"  Miss  Ayer,  I  wonder  if  you  can  do  a  favor 
for   us?"      He   went   on,    without    waiting   for 
Susannah's  answer:  "  Cowler — you  know  what  a 
helpless  person  he  is — wants  to  go  to  dinner  and 
the  theater  tonight.     It  happens  that  none  of  us 
can  accompany  him.    We've  all  made  the  kind  of 
engagement    which    can't    be    broken — business. 


48  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

He  feels  a  little  self-conscious.  You  know,  his 
money  came  to  him  late,  and  he  has  never  been 
to  a  big  city  before.  I  suspect  he  is  afraid  to 
enter  a  fashionable  restaurant  alone.  He  wants 
to  go  to  Sherry's  and  to  the  theater  afterward — " 
Mr.  Warner  paused  to  smile  genially.  "  He's 
something  of  a  hick,  you  know,  and  especially  in 
regard  to  this  Sherry  and  midnight  cabaret  stuff." 
Mr.  Warner  rarely  used  slang;  and  when  he  did, 
his  smile  seemed  to  put  it  into  quotation  marks. 
'*  True  to  type,  he  has  bought  tickets  in  the  front 
row.  After  the  show,  he  wants  to  go  to  one  of 
the  midnight  cabarets.  Would  you  be  willing  to 
steer  him  through  all  this?  The  show  is  Let's 
Beat  It." 

Susannah  expressed  herself  as  delighted;  and 
indeed  she  was.  To  herself  she  admitted  that 
Mr.  Cowler  was  no  more  of  a  "  hick  "  in  regard 
to  Broadway,  Sherry's,  and  midnight  cabarets 
than  she  herself.  But  about  admitting  this,  she 
had  all  the  self-consciousness  of  the  newly  arrived 
New  Yorker. 

"  That  is  very  good  of  you,  Miss  Ayer,"  said 
Mr.  Warner,  appearing  much  relieved.  "  You 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  49 

may  go  home  this  afternoon  an  hour  earlier." 
Again  Mr.  Warner  passed  from  his  incisive,  gray- 
hued  sobriety  to  an  expansive  geniality.  "  I  know 
that  in  these  circumstances,  ladies  like  to  take  time 
over  their  toilettes."  He  smiled  at  Susannah,  a 
'smile  more  expansive  than  any  she  had  ever  seen 
on  his  face;  it  showed  to  the  back  molars  his 
handsome,  white,  regular  teeth. 

Mr.  Cowler  called  for  her  in  a  taxicab  at  seven 
and — 

She  heard  Mr.  Warner's  door  open  and  shut. 
Footsteps  sounded  in  the  corridor — that  was  Mr. 
O'Hearn's  voice.  She  glanced  at  her  wrist-watch. 
Half-past  nine.  The  partners  had  arrived  early 
this  morning,  of  all  mornings.  They  were  night 
birds,  all  three,  seldom  appearing  before  half-past 
ten,  and  often  working  in  the  office  late  after  she 
had  gone.  Susannah  stopped  mid-sentence  a 
letter  which  she  was  tapping  out  to  a  widow  in 
Iowa,  rose,  moved  toward  the  door.  At  the 
threshold,  she  stopped,  a  deep  blush  suffusing  her 
face.  So  she  paused  for  a  moment,  irresolute. 
When  finally  she  started  down  the  corridor,  Mr. 


50  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Warner  emerged  from  the  door  of  his  own  office, 
met  her  face  to  face.  And  as  his  eyes  rested  on 
hers,  she  was  puzzled  by  the  expression  on  his 
smooth  countenance.  Was  it  anxiety?  His  ex- 
pression seemed  to  question  her — then  it  flowed 
into  his  cordial  smile. 

Susannah  was  first  to  speak: 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Warner.  May  I  see  you 
alone  for  a  moment?" 

"Certainly!"  With  his  best  courtliness  of 
manner,  he  bowed  her  into  his  private  office. 
"  Won't  you  have  a  seat?  " 

Susannah  sat  down. 

"  It's  about — about  Mr.  Cowler  and  last 
night."  She  paused. 

"  Oh,"  asked  Mr.  Warner,  carelessly,  casually, 
"  did  you  have  a  pleasant  evening?  " 

"  It's  about  that  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you," 
Susannah  faltered.  Suddenly,  her  embarrassment 
broke,  and  she  became  perfectly  composed. 
"  Mr.  Warner,  I  dislike  to  tell  you  all  this,  be- 
cause I  know  how  it  will  shock  you  to  hear  it. 
But  you  will  understand  that  I  have  no  choice  in 
the  matter.  It  is  very  hard  to  speak  of,  and  I 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  51 

don't  know  exactly  how  to  express  it,  but,  Mr. 
Warner,  Mr.  Cowler  insulted  me  grossly  last 
evening  ...  so  grossly  that  I  left  the  table 
where  we  were  eating  after  the  theater  and  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  well,  perhaps  you  can  guess  my  state 
of  mind  when  I  tell  you  that  1  was  actually  afraid 
to  take  a  taxi.  Of  course,  I  see  now  how  foolish 
that  was.  But  I  ...  I  ran  all  the  way  home." 
For  an  instant,  Mr.  Warner's  fine,  incisive 
geniality  did  not  change.  Then  suddenly  it  broke 
into  a  look  of  sympathetic  understanding.  "  I  am 
sorry,  Miss  Ayer,"  he  declared  gravely,  "  I  am 
indeed  sorry."  His  clergyman. aspect  was  for  the 
moment  in  the  ascendent.  He  might  have  been 
talking  from  the  pulpit.  His  voice  took  its  ora- 
torical tone.  "  It  seems  incredible  that  men 
should  do  such  things — incredible.  But  one  must, 
I  suppose,  make  allowances.  A  rural  type  alone 
in  a  great  city  and  surrounded  by  all  the  intoxi- 
cating aspects  of  that  city.  It  undoubtedly  un- 
balanced him.  Moreover,  Miss  Ayer,  I  may  say 
without  flattery  that  you  are  more  than  attrac- 
tive. And  then,  he  is  unaccustomed  to  drink- 
ing—" 


52  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

u  Oh,  he  had  not  drunk  anything  to  speak  of," 
Susannah  interrupted.  "  A  little  claret  at  dinner. 
He  had  ordered  champagne,  but  this  .  .  .  this 
episode  occurred  before  it  came." 

"  Incredible !  "  again  murmured  Mr.  Warner. 
41  Inexplicable !  "  he  added.  He  paused  for  a 
moment.  "  You  wish  me  to  see  that  he  apolo- 
gizes?" 

u  I  don't  ask  that.  I  am  only  telling  you  so 
that  you  may  understand  why  I  can  never  speak 
to  him  again.  For  of  course  I  don't  want  to  see 
him  as  long  as  I  live.  I  thought  perhaps  .  .  . 
that  if  he  comes  here  again  .  .  .  you  might 
manage  so  that  he  doesn't  enter  through  my 
office." 

"  We  can  probably  manage  that,"  Mr.  Warner 
agreed  urbanely.  "  Of  course  we  can  manage 
that.  He  is,  you  see,  a  prospective  client,  and  a 
very  profitable  one.  We  must  continue  to  do  busi- 
ness with  him  as  usual." 

"  Oh,  of  course !  "  gasped  Susannah.  "  Please 
ilon't  think  I'm  trying  to  interfere  with  your 
business.  I  understand  perfectly.  It  is  only  that 
I — but  of  course  you  understand.  I  don't  want 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  53 

to  see  him  again."  She  rose.  Her  lithe  figure 
came  up  to  the  last  inch  of  its  height;  the  attitude 
gave  her  the  effect  of  a  column.  Her  head  was 
like  a  glowing  alabaster  lamp  set  at  the  top  of 
that  column.  All  the  trouble  had  faded  out  of 
her  face.  The  set,  scarlet  lines  in  her  mouth  had 
melted  to  their  normal  scarlet  curves.  The  light 
had  come  bacl^  in  a  brilliant  flood  to  her  turquoise 
eyes.  In  this  uprush  of  spirit,  her  red  hair  seemed 
even  to  bristle  and  to  glisten.  She  sparkled 
visibly.  "  And  now,  I  guess  I'll  get  back  to 
work,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  found  in 
my  mail  this  morning  a  letter  addressed,  not  to 
the  women's  department,  but  to  the  firm.  I 
opened  it,  but  of  course  by  accident." 

Mr.  Warner  drew  the  letter  from  its  envelope, 
began  casually  running  through  it.  The  conver- 
sation seemed  now  to  be  ended;  Susannah  moved 
toward  the  door.  From  his  perusal  of  the  letter, 
Mr.  Warner  stabbed  at  her  back  with  one  quick, 
alarmed  glance,  and: 

"  Oh,  Miss  Ayer,  don't  go  yet,"  he  said.  His 
tone  was  a  little  tense  and  sharp.  But  he  con- 
tinued to  peruse  the  letter.  As  he  finished  the  last 


54  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

page,  he  looked  up.  Again,  his  tone  seemed  pe- 
culiar; and  he  hesitated  before  he  spoke. 

11  Er — did  you  make  out  the  signature  on 
this?"  he  asked. 

"  No — it  puzzled  me,"  replied  Susannah. 

"  Sit  down  again,  please,"  said  Mr.  Warner. 
Now  his  manner  had  that  accent  of  suavity,  that 
velvety  actor  quality,  which  usually  he  reserved 
solely  for  women  clients.  "  I'm  awfully  sorry, 
but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  see  Mr. 
Cowler  again." 

"  Mr.  Warner,  I  ...  I  simply  could  not  do 
that.  I  can  never  speak  to  him  again.  You  don't 
know  .  .  .  You  can't  guess  .  .  .  Why,  I 
could  scarcely  tell  my  own  mother  .  .  .  if  I 
had  one  ..." 

"  It  seems  quite  shocking  to  you,  of  course, 
and —  Wait  a  moment — "  Mr.  Warner  rose 
and  walked  toward  the  door  leading  to  Byan's 
office.  But  he  seemed  suddenly  to  change  his 
mind.  "  I  know  exactly  how  you  must  feel,"  he 
said,  returning.  "  Believe  me,  my  dear  Voung 
lady,  I  enter  perfectly  into  your  emotions. 
Shocked  susceptibilities !  Wounded  pride !  All 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  55 

perfectly  natural,  even  exemplary.  But,  Miss 
Ayer,  this  is  a  strange  world.  And  in  some 
aspects  a  very  unsatisfactory  one.  We  have  to 
put  up  with  many  things  we  don't  like.  I,  for 
instance.  You  could  not  guess  the  many  disagree- 
able experiences  to  which  I  submit  daily.  I  hate 
them  as  much  as  anyone,  but  business  compels  me 
to  endure  them.  Now  you,  in  your  position  as 
manager  of  the  Women's  Department — " 

"  Nothing,"  Susannah  interrupted  steadily, 
"  could  induce  me  knowingly  to  submit  again  to 
what  happened  last  night.  I  would  rather  throw 
up  my  job.  I  would  rather  die." 

**  But,  my  dear  Miss  Ayer,  you  are  not  the  only 
young  lady  in  this  city  who  has  been  through  such 
experiences.  If  women  will  invade  industry,  they 
must  take  the  consequences.  Actresses,  shopgirls, 
woman-buyers  accept  these  things  as  a  matter  of 
course — as  all  in  the  day's  work.  Indeed,  many 
stenographers  complain  of  unpleasant  experi- 
ences. You  have  been  exceedingly  fortunate. 
Have  we  not  in  this  office  paid  you  every  pos- 
sible respect?  " 

u  Of  course  you  have !    It  is  because  you  have 


56  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

been  so  kind  that  I  came  to  you  at  once,  hoping 
.  .  .  believing  .  .  .  that  you  would  under- 
stand. It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  ..." 

"  Of  course  I  understand,"  Mr.  Warner  iiv 
sisted,  in  his  most  soothing  tone.  "  It's  all  very 
dreadful.  What  I  am  trying  to  point  out  to  you 
is  that  whatever  you  do  or  wherever  you  go  in  a 
great  city,  the  same  thing  is  likely  to  happen.  I 
am  trying  to  prove  to  you  that  you  are  especially 
protected  here.  You  like  your  work,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  love  it!  "  Susannah  protested  with  fervor. 

"  Then  I  think  you  will  do  well  to  ignore  the 
incident.  Come,  my  child," — Mr.  Warner  was 
now  a  combination  of  guiding  pastor  and  admon- 
ishing parent, — "  forget  this  deplorable  incident. 
When  Mr.  Cowler  comes  in  this  afternoon,  meet 
him  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Un- 
doubtedly he  is  now  bitterly  regretting  his  mis- 
take. Unquestionably  he  will  apologize.  And 
the  next  time  he  asks  you  to  go  out  with  him,  he 
will  have  learned  how  to  treat  a  young  lady  so 
admirable  and  estimable,  and  you  can  accept  his 
invitation  with  an  untroubled  spirit." 

"  If  I  meet  Mr.  Cowler  I  will  treat  him  exactly 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  57 

as  though  nothing  had  happened,"  Susannah  de- 
clared steadily.  "  I  mean  that  upon  meeting  him 
I  will  bow.  I  will  even — if  you  ask  it — give  him 
any  information  he  may  want  about  the  business. 
But  as  to  going  anywhere  with  him  again — I  must 
decline  absolutely." 

"  But  that  is  one  of  the  services  which  we  shall 
have  to  demand  from  time  to  time.  Clients  come 
to  town.  They  want  an  attractive  young  lady, 
a  lady  who  will  be  a  credit  to  them — a  description 
which,  I  may  say,  perfectly  applies  to  you — to  ac- 
company them  about  the  city.  That  will  be  a 
part  of  your  duties  in  future.  Had  the  occasion 
arisen  before,  it  would  have  been  a  part  of  your 
duties  in  the  past.  If  Mr.  Cowler  asks  you  again 
to  accompany  him  for  the  evening,  we  shall  ex- 
pect you  to  go." 

4  You  never  told  me,"  said  Susannah  after  a 
perceptible  interval,  during  which  directly  and 
piercingly  she  met  Mr.  Warner's  gentle  gaze, 
"  that  you  expected  this  sort  of  thing." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  replied  Mr.  Warner 
with  a  kind  of  bland  elegance,  "  I  am  very  sorry 
if  I  did  not  make  that  clear." 


58  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  Then/'  said  Susannah — so  unexpectedly  that 
it  was  unexpected  even  to  herself — "  I  shall  have 
to  give  up  my  position.  Please  look  for  another 
secretary.  I  shall  consider  it  a  favor  if  you  get 
her  as  soon  as  possible." 

Another  pause;  and  then  Mr.  Warner  asked: 

"  Would  you  mind  waiting  here  for  just  a  few 
moments  before  you  make  that  decision  final?  " 

"  I  will  wait,"  agreed  Susannah.  "  But  I  will 
not  change  my  decision." 

Mr.  Warner  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised  or 
annoyed.  He  arose  abruptly,  started  toward 
Byan's  office.  This  time  he  entered  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  A  moment  later,  Susannah 
realized  from  the  muffled  sounds  which  filtered 
through  the  partition  that  the  partners  were  in 
conference.  She  caught  the  velvety  tones  of 
Byan;  O'Hearn's  soft  lilt.  And  as  she  sat  there, 
idly  tapping  the  desk  with  a  penholder,  something 
among  the  memories  of  that  confused  morning 
crept  into  her  mind;  spread  until  it  blotted  out 
even  the  memory  of  Mr.  Cowler.  That  letter 
— what  did  it  mean?  In  her  listless,  inattentive 
state  of  mind,  she  had  opened  it  carelessly,  read 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  59 

it  through  before  she  realized  that  it  was  ad- 
dressed not  to  the  Women's  Department,  but  to 
the  company.  Had  anyone  asked  her,  a  moment 
after  she  laid  it  down,  just  what  it  said,  she  could 
not  have  answered.  Now,  her  perplexed  loneli- 
ness brought  it  all  out  on  the  tablets  of  her  mind 
as  the  chemical  brings  out  the  picture  from  the 
blankness  of  a  photographic  plate.  She  glanced 
at  the  desk.  The  letter  was  not  there — Mr. 
Warner  had  taken  it  with  him. 

The  man  with  the  illegible  signature  wrote 
from  Nevada.  He  had  seen,  during  a  visit  to 
Kansas  City,  the  circulars  of  the  Carbonado  Min- 
ing Company.  After  his  return,  he  had  passed 
through  Carbonado.  "  I  wondered,  when  I  saw 
your  literature,  whether  there  had  been  a  new 
strike  in  that  busted  camp,"  he  wrote.  "  There 
hadn't.  Carbonado  now  consists  of  one  store- 
keeper and  a  few  retired  prospectors  who  are  try- 
ing to  scrape  something  from  the  corners  of  the 
old  Buffalo  Boy  property.  That  camp  was 
worked  out  in  the  eighties — and  it  was  never 
much  but  promises  at  that."  As  for  the  photo- 
graphs which  decorated  the  Carbonado  Com- 


6o  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

pany's  circulars,  this  man  recognized  at  least  one 
of  them  as  a  picture  of  a  property  he  knew  in 
iUtah.  Finally,  he  asked  sarcastically  just  how 
long  they  expected  to  keep  up  the  graft.  "  It's 
the  old  game,  isn't  it?"  he  inquired,  "  pay  three 
per  cent  for  a  while  and  then  get  out  with  the 
capital."  Three  per  cent  a  month — that  was 
exactly  what  the  Carbonado  Company  was  pay- 
ing. She  wondered — 

Conjecture  for  Susannah  would  have  been  cer- 
tainty could  she  have  heard  the  conversation  just 
the  other  side  of  that  closed  door.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  the  contents  of  this  letter  flashed  back 
into  her  mind,  the  letter  itself  lay  on  Mr.  Byan's 
polished  mahogany  table.  Beside  it  lay  a  pile  of 
penciled  memoranda  through  which  fluttered  from 
time  to  time  the  nervous  hand  of  H.  Withington 
Warner.  Susannah  would  scarcely  have  known 
her  genial  employer.  The  mask  of  actor  and 
clergyman  had  slipped  from  his  face.  His  cheeks 
seemed  to  fall  flat  and  flabby.  His  eyes  had  lost 
their  benevolence.  His  mouth  was  set  as  hard 
as  a  trap,  the  corners  drooping.  Across  the  table 
from  him,  too,  sat  a  transformed  Byan.  His 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  61 

smooth,  regular  features  had  sharpened  to  the 
likeness  of  a  rat's.  His  voice,  however,  was  still 
velvety;  even  though  it  had  just  flung  at  Warner 
a  string  of  oaths. 

u  I  told  you  we  ought  to've  let  go  and  skipped 
six  weeks  ago,"  he  said,  "  that  was  the  time  for 
the  touch-off.  Secret  Service  still  chasin'  Heinies 
— everythin'  coming  in  and  nothin'  going  out. 
The  suckers  had  already  stopped  biting  and  then 
you  go  and  hand  out  two  more  monthly  dividends 
and  settle  all  the  bills  like  you  intended  to  stay 
in  business  forever.  What  did  we  want  with  this 
royal  suite  here,  and  ours  a  correspondence  game  ? 
What  do  we  split  if  we  stop  today?  Twelve  hun- 
dred dollars.  Twelve  hundred  dollars !  We  land 
this  Cowler — see !  " 

Warner,  unperturbed,  swept  his  glance  to 
O'Hearn,  who  sat  huddled  up  in  his  chair,  search- 
ing with  his  glance  now  one  of  his  partners,  now 
the  other. 

**  Mike,"  he  said,  u  you're  certain  about  your 
tip  on  the  fly  cops?  " 

"Dead  sure!"  responded  O'Hearn.  "  The 
regular  bulls  ain't  touching  mining  operations  just 


62  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

now.  It's  up  to  the  Secret  Service.  In  two  weeks 
more  they'll  be  all  cleaned  up  on  the  war,  and 
then  they'll  be  reorganizing  their  little  committee 
on  high  finance.  That  there  Inspector  Laughlin 
will  take  charge.  He  knows  you,  Boss.  Then  " 
— O'Hearn  spread  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
finality — "  about  a  week  more  and  they'll  get 
round  to  us.  Three  weeks  is  all  we're  safe  to  go. 
They  stop  our  mail  and  then — the  pinch  maybe. 
The  tip's  straight  from  you-know-who.  The 
pinch — see !  " 

At  the  repetition  of  that  word  "  pinch,"  Ryan's 
countenance  changed  subtly.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  winced  within.  But  he  spoke  in  his  usual 
velvety  tone. 

"  Less  than  three  weeks — h'm !  How  much  is 
Cowler  good  for?  " 

"  About  a  hundred  thou' — big  or  nothing," 
replied  Warner.  He  was  drawing  stars  and 
circles  on  the  desk  blotter.  "  He  can't  be  landed 
without  the  girl.  If  he'd  tumbled  for  the  Lizzies 
you  shook  at  him — but  he  didn't — it's  this  red- 
headed doll  in  our  office  or  nothing.  And  I've 
told  you — " 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  63 

Here  O'Hearn  threw  himself  abruptly  into  the 
conversation. 

"  Lave  out  th'  girrul,"  he  said.  Usually 
O'Hearn's  Irish  showed  in  his  speech  only  by  a 
slight  twist  at  the  turn  of  his  tongue.  Now  it 
reverted  to  a  thick  brogue.  "  I'll  not  have  any- 
thin'  to  do — " 

"  We'll  leave  in  or  take  out  exactly  what  I 
say,"  put  in  Warner  smoothly.  "  Exactly  what 
I  say,"  he  repeated.  At  this  direct  thrust,  Byan 
lifted  his  somewhat  dreamy  eyes.  He  dropped 
them  again.  Then  Warner,  his  gaze  directly  on 
O'Hearn's  face,  made  a  swift,  sinister  gesture. 
He  drew  a  forefinger  round  his  own  throat,  and 
completed  the  motion  by  pointing  directly  up- 
ward. O'Hearn,  his  face  suddenly  going  a  little 
pale,  subsided.  Warner  broke  into  the  sweet, 
Christian  smile  of  his  office  manner.  Subtly,  he 
seemed  to  take  command.  His  personality  filled 
the  room  as  he  leaned  forward  over  the  table  and 
summed  everything  up. 

"  As  for  your  noise  about  quitting  six  weeks 
ago,"  he  said,  "  how  was  I  to  know  that  the 
suckers  were  going  to  stop  running?  We  looked 


64  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

good  for  three  months  then.  We've  got  three 
weeks  to  go.  All  right.  As  for  the  pinch,  they 
won't  get  us  unless  the  wad  gives  out.  Every 
stage  of  this  game  has  been  submitted  to  a  lawyer. 
We're  just  a  hair  inside — but  inside  all  the  same. 
But  if  we  can't  come  through  liberally  to  him 
when  we're  really  in  trouble,  we  might  as  well 
measure  ourselves  for  stripes.  He's  that  kind 
of  lawyer.  With  a  hundred  thousand  dollars — " 
lie  seemed  to  roll  that  phrase  under  his  tongue— 
"  we  can  stay  and  make  snoots  at  the  Secret  Serv- 
ice or  beat  it  elsewhere,  just  as  we  please.  Ozias 
Cowler  can  furnish  the  hundred  thou'.  But  he'll 
take  only  one  bait.  I've  tried  'em  all — flies, 
worms,  beetles,  and  grasshoppers — and  there's 
only  one.  And  that  one  is  trying  to  wriggle  off 
the  hook.  I  thought  last  night  when  I  sent  her 
out  with  him  that  maybe  she  would  fall  for  him. 
The  rest  would  have  been  easy.  But  she  only 
worked  up  a  case  of  this  here  maidenly  virtue. 
On  top  of  that,  she  reads  this  letter.  Of  course, 
she  has  read  it,  though  she  don't  know  I  know. 
I  squeezed  that  out  of  her. 

"  There,"  concluded  Warner,  "  that's  the  lay- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  65 

out,  isn't  it?  "  He  turned  to  Byan;  and  his  smil- 
ing, office  manner  came  over  his  expression. 
"  What  would  you  say,  Joe?  You're  by  way  of 
being  an  expert  on  this  kind  of  bait."  In  the 
Carbonado  Mining  Company,  Warner  ruled 
partly  through  his  quality  of  personal  force,  but 
partly  through  fear,  the  cement  of  underworld 
society.  Just  as  he  shook  at  O'Hearn  from  time 
to  time  the  threat  conveyed  by  that  sinister  ges- 
ture, he  held  over  Byan  the  knowledge  of  that 
trade  and  traffic,  shameful  even  among  criminals, 
from  which  Byan  had  risen  to  be  a  pander  of  low 
finance.  At  this  thrust,  however,  Byan  did  not 
pale,  as  had  O'Hearn.  His  expression  became 
only  the  more  inscrutable. 

*  You  should  have  let  me  break  her  in  when 
I  wanted  to,  months  ago,"  he  said.  u  I'd  'a'  had 
her  ready  now.  He  won't  fall  for  anyone  else. 
I've  offered  those  other  Molls  to  him,  but  he's 
crushed  on  her  and  won't  look  at  anybody  else. 
So  we've  got  to  put  the  screws  on  her.  They're 
all  cowards  inside — yellow  every  one." 

"  Meaning?"  inquired  Warner. 

"  She's  in  it  up  to  her  neck  with  us,"  said  Byan. 


66  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  We  saw  to  that.  All  right.  If  we  should  go 
up  against  it,  she'd  »have  a  hell  of  a  time  proving 
to  a  jury  that  she  didn't  know  what  her  letters  to 
customers  were  all  about.  Now  wouldn't  she? 
Ask -yourself.  Looked  like  hard  luck  to  me  when 
she  saw  that  letter  just  when  she'd  slapped  the 
face  of  this  Cowler.  But  maybe  it's  a  regular 
godsend.  Put  it  to  her  straight  that  this  business 
is  a  graft,  that  we're  due  to  go  up  against  it  in 
three  weeks  unless  something  nice  happens,  and 
that  she's  in  it  as  deep  as  any  of  us.  When  she's 
so  scared  she  can't  see,  let  her  know  that  she  has 
got  one  way  out — fall  for  Cowler  and  help  us 
touch  him  for  his  hundred  thousand.  Make  her 
think  that  it's  the  stir  sure  if  she  don't,  and  a 
clean  getaway  if  she  does." 

"  Suppose,"  continued  Warner  in  the  manner  of 
one  weighing  every  chance,  "  she  goes  with  her 
troubles  to  some  wise  guy?  " 

"  She's  got  no  friends  here,"  said  Byan.  "  I 
looked  into  that.  Runs  around  with  one  fluff,  but 
she  don't  count.  If  she's  scared  enough,  I  tell 
you,  she'll  never  dare  peep — and  she'll  come 
round." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  67 

"  Suppose  she  beats  it?  "  suggested  Warner. 

"  Well,  Mike  and  I  can  shadow  her,  can't 
we?  "  replied  Byan.  "  If  she  tries  to  get  out  by 
rail,  we  can  stop  her  and  put  on  the  screws  right 
away.  The  screws  !  "  repeated  Byan,  as  "one  who 
liked  the  idea.  "  And  if  she  does  hold  out  a 
while,  nothin's  lost.  You've  got  the  old  dope 
worked  up  to  the  idea  she's  interested  in  him, 
haven't  you?  Well,  if  she  don't  fall  right  away, 
you  can  take  a  little  time  explaining  to  him  why 
she  acted  that  way  last  night.  Maybe  best  to 
dangle  her  a  while,  anyway — get  him  so  anxious 
to  see  her  that  he'll  fall  for  anything  when  you 
bring  her  round.  I'll  be  tightening  up  the  screws, 
and  when  he's  ripe  I'll  deliver  her." 

"  The  screws,"  repeated  O'Hearn.  "  Mean- 
in'—?" 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Byan.  "  I  know 
how." 

Warner  smiled;  but  it  was  not  the  genial  beam 
of  his  office  manner.  For  when  the  corners  of 
his  drooping  mouth  lifted,  they  showed  merely  a 
gleam  of  canine  teeth,  which  lay  on  his  lip  like 
fangs. 


68  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  I  suppose,  when  it's  over,  she's  your  personal 
property,"  he  concluded. 

"  Oh,  sure !  "  responded  Byan  carelessly. 

"  You'll  not — "  began  O'Hearn;  but  this  time 
it  was  Warner  who  interrupted. 

"  Mickey,"  he  said,  "  any  arrangements  be- 
tween this  lady  and  Byan  are  their  own  private 
affair — after  the  touch-off,  which  may  stand  you 
twenty-five  thousand  shiners.  Besides — "  He 
did  not  make  his  threatening  gesture  now,  but 
merely  flashed  that  smile  of  fangs  and  sinister 
suggestion.  Then  he  rose. 

u  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Come  on — all  of  you — 
and  I'll  give  her  that  little  business  talk,  before 
she's  had  time  to  think  and  work  up  an- 
other notion.  Maybe  she'll  fall  for  it  right 
away." 

"  Not  right  away,  she  won't,"  Byan  promul- 
gated from  the  depths  of  his  experience,  "  but  be- 
fore I'm  through,  she  will." 

The  three  men  came  filing  into  the  room  where 
Susannah  sat,  her  elbows  on  the  desk,  her  chin  on 
her  hands.  She  rose  abruptly  and  faced  them. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  69 

eyes  wide,  lips  parted.  Mr.  Warner  wore 
his  office  manner;  his  smile  was  now  benevo- 
lent. 

"  I  have  been  telling  Mr.  Byan  and  Mr. 
O'Hearn  about  your  experience  and  your  de- 
cision, Miss  Ayer,"  began  Mr.  Warner. 

Susannah  blushed  deeply;  and  for  an  instant 
her  lashes  swept  over  a  sudden  stern  flame  in  her 
eyes.  Then  she  lifted  them  and  looked  with  a 
noncommittal  openness  from  one  face  to  the 
other.  "  I  think  I  have  nothing  to  add,"  she 
said. 

1  Yes,  but  perhaps  we  have,"  Mr.  Warner  in- 
formed her  gently.  "  Sit  down,  Miss  Ayer.  Sit 
down,  boys." 

The  three  men  seated  themselves.  "  Thank 
you,"  said  Susannah;  but  she  continued  to  stand. 
Byan  rose  thereupon,  and  stood  lolling  in  the  cor- 
ner, his  vague  smile  floating  on  his  lips.  O'Hearn 
dropped  his  chin  almost  to  that  point  on  his  chest 
where  his  folded  arms  rested.  His  lips  drooped. 
Occasionally  he  studied  the  situation  from  under 
his  protuberant  forehead. 

"  Miss  Ayer,"  Warner  went  on  after  a  pause, 


70  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  you  read  that  letter — the  one  you  handed  to  me 
this  mornirrg?  " 

Susannah  hesitated  for  an  almost  imperceptible 
moment.  "  Yes,"  she  admitted,  "  entirely  by  mis- 
take." 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  that  it  will 
surprise  you  to  hear,  Miss  Ayer.  What  this 
fellow  says  is  all  true.  Carbonado  is  merely  a 
— a  convenient  name,  let  us  say.  In  other  words, 
we  are  engaged  in  selling  fake  stocks  to  suckers. 
To  be  still  more  explicit,  we  are  conducting  a 
criminal  business.  We  could  be  arrested  at  any 
moment  and  sent  to  jail.  To  the  Federal  peni- 
tentiary, in  fact.  I  suppose  that  is  a  great  sur- 
prise to  you?  " 

Though  she  had  guessed  something  of  this  ever 
since  she  recalled  the  contents  of  the  letter,  the 
cold-blooded  statement  came  indeed  with  all  the 
force  of  a  surprise.  Susannah's  figure  stiffened 
as  though  she  had  touched  a  live  wire.  The 
crimson  flush  drained  out  of  her  face.  And  she 
heard  herself  saying,  as  though  in  another's  voice 
and  far  away,  the  inadequate  words:  "  How  per- 
fectly terrible !  " 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  71 

"  Exactly  so !  "  agreed  Warner.  "  Only  you 
haven't  the  remotest  idea  how  terrible.  Miss 
Ayer,  this  company — you  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
us — needs  money  and  needs  it  right  away.  Ozias 
Cowler  has  money — a  great  deal  of  money. 
Somebody's  bound  to  get  it — and  why  not  we? 
We  use  various  means  to  get  money  out  of 
suckers.  There's  only  one  way  with  Cowler. 
He's  stuck  on  you.  You  can  get  it  from  him.  We 
want  you  to  do  that — we  expect  you  to  do  that." 

Susannah  stared  at  him.  "  Mr.  Warner,  I 
think  you  are  crazy.  I  could  no  more  do  that 
...  I  couldn't  ...  I  wouldn't  even  know 
how  .  .  .  my  resignation  goes  into  effect  im- 
mediately. I  couldn't  possibly  stay  here  another 
minute."  She  turned  to  leave  the  office. 

"  Just  one  moment!"  Mr.  Warner's  words 
purled  on.  His  tone  was  low,  his  accent  bland 
— but  his  voice  stopped  her  instantly.  "  Miss 
Ayer,  you  don't  understand  yet.  Unless  we  get 
some  money — a  great  deal  of  money — we  shan't 
last  another  two_ weeks.  The  situation  is — but  I 
won't  take  the  time  to  explain  that.  Unless  we 
clean  up  that  aforesaid  mo$ey,  we  go  to  jail — for 


72  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

a  good  long  term.     If  we  get  the  money — we 
don't.    Never  mind  the  details.    I  assure  you  it's 


true." 


"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Susannah,  her  lips  scarcely 
moving  as  she  spoke,  "  but  I  fail  to  see  what  I 
have  to  do  with  that — " 

"  I  was  about  to  go  on  to  say,  Miss  Ayer,  that 
you  have  everything  to  do  with  it.  You  must  be 
aware,  if  you  look  back  over  your  service  with  us, 
that  you  are  as  much  involved  as  anyone.  Your 
name  is  on  our  letterhead.  You  have  signed  hun- 
dreds and  perhaps  thousands  of  letters  to  woman 
investors.  Putting  a  disagreeable  fact  rather 
baldly,  what  happens  to  us  happens  to  you.  If 
it's  the  stir — if  it's  jail — for  us,  it's  jail  for  you." 

Susannah  stared  at  him.  She  grew  rigid.  But 
she  roused  herself  to  a  trembling  weak  defense. 

"  I'll  tell  them,  if  they  arrest  me  ...  all 
that  has  gone  on  here  ..."  she  began. 

"  If  you  do,"  put  in  Mr.  Warner  smoothly, 
"  you  only  create  for  yourself  an  unfavorable  im- 
pression. You  put  yourself  in  the  position  of 
going  back  on  your  pals,  and  it  will  not  get  you 
immunity.  If  Mr.  Cowler  comes  through,  you 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  73 

are  entitled  to  a  share  of  the  proceeds.  Whether 
you  take  it  or  no  is  a  matter  for  your  private 
feelings.  But  the  main  point  is  that  with  Cowler 
in,  this  thing  will  be  fixed,  and  without  him  in, 
you  are  in  jail  or  a  fugitive  from  justice. " 

He  paused  now  and  looked  at  Susannah — 
paused  not  as  one  who  pities  but  as  one  who  asks 
himself  if  he  has  said  enough.  Susannah's  face 
proved  that  he  had. 

"  Now  of  course  you  won't  feel  like  working 
this  morning.  And  I  don't  blame  you.  Go  home 
and  think  it  over.  Your  first  instinct,  probably, 
will  be  to  see  a  lawyer.  For  your  own  sake,  I 
advise  you  not  to  do  that.  For  ours,  I  hope  you 
do.  If  he  tells  you  the  truth,  he  will  show  you 
how  deeply  involved  you  are  in  this  thing.  No 
lawyer  whom  you  can  command  will  handle  your 
case.  What  you'd  better  do  is  lie  down  and  take 
a  nap.  Then  at  about  five  o'clock  this  afternoon, 
send  for  hot  coffee  and  doll  yourself  up — Mr. 
Cowler  will  call  for  you  at  seven." 

Susannah  took  part  of  Mr.  Warner's  advice. 
She  went  home  immediately.  But  she  did  not  take 


74  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

a  nap.  Instead,  she  walked  up  and  down  her  bed- 
room for  an  hour,  thinking  hard.  She  could  think 
now;  in  her  passage  home  on  the  Subway,  her  first 
wild  panic  had  beaten  its  desperate  black  wings 
to  quiet.  What  Warner  had  told  her  she  now 
believed  implicitly.  She  was  as  much  caught  in 
the  trap  as  any  one  of  the  three  crooks  with 
whom  she  had  been  associated.  The  only  dif- 
ference was  that  she  did  not  mean  to  stay  in  the 
trap.  She  meant  to  escape.  Also  she  did  not 
mean  to  let  it  drive  her  from  the  city  in  which  she 
was  challenging  success.  She  meant  to  stay  in  New 
York.  She  meant  to  escape.  But  how? 

If  there  were  only  somebody  to  whom  she  could 
go!  She  had  in  New  York  a  few  acquaintances 
— but  no  real  friends.  Besides,  she  didn't  want 
anybody  to  know ;  all  she  wanted  was  to  get  away 
from — to  vanish  from  their  sight.  But  where 
could  she  go — when — how? 

Fortunately  she  had  plenty  of  money  on  hand, 
plenty  at  least  for  her  immediate  purposes.  She 
owned  a  few  pawnable  things,  though  only  a  few. 
But  at  present  what  she  needed,  more  even  than 
money,  was  time.  She  must  get  away  at  once. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  75 

But  again  where  ?  For  a  moment  resurgent  panic 
tore  her.  Then  common  sense  seemed  to  offer 
a  solution.  Here  she  was  in  the  biggest  city  in 
the  country;  the  biggest  in  the  world.  She  had 
heard  somewhere  that  a  big  city  was  the  best  place 
in  the  world  to  hide  in.  She  would  hide  in  New 
York.  Then- 
She  had  forgotten  one  terrifying  fact.  Byan 
boarded  in  the  same  house. 

She  realized  why  now.  A  fortnight  before — 
shortly  after  Mr.  Cowler  appeared  in  the  office 
— he  had  come  to  her  for  advice.  He  had  given 
up  one  bachelor  apartment,  he  said,  and  was  tak- 
ing another.  Repairs  had  become  inevitable  in 
the  new  apartment.  He  did  not  want  to  go  to  a 
hotel.  Did  she  know  of  a  good  boarding-house 
in  which  to  spend  a  month?  She  did,  of  course 
j — her  own.  Byan  came  there  the  next  day;  al- 
though, curiously  enough,  she  saw  but  little  of 
him.  They  had  separate  tables,  and  his  meal- 
hours  and  hers  were  different. 

Byan  usually  came  in  at  about  six  o'clock.  But 
today  he  might  follow  her.  She  must  work 
quickly. 


76  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

She  pulled  her  trunk  out  from  under  the  bed 
and  began  in  frenzied  haste  to  pack  it.  Down 
came  all  the  pictures  from  her  walls.  Into  the 
trunk  went  most  of  her  clothes ;  some  of  her  toilet 
articles;  her  half-dozen  books;  her  stationery;  all 
her  slender  Lares  and  Penates.  When  she  had 
finished  with  her  trunk,  she  packed  her  suitcase. 
As  many  thin  dresses  as  she  could  crush  in — in- 
consequent necessities — her  storm  boots;  her 
tooth-brush — 

Then  she  wrote  a  note  to  her  landlady.  It 
read:  "Dear  Mrs.  Ray:  I  have  been  suddenly 
called  away  from  <he  city.  Will  you  keep  my 
trunk  until  I  send  for  it?  Yours  in  great  haste 
and  some  trouble,  Susannah  Ayer."  She  put  it 
with  her  board  money  in  an  envelope,  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Ray,  and  placed  it  on  the  trunk. 

At  three  o'clock,  her  suitcase  in  one  hand,  her 
bag  and  her  umbrella  in  the  other,  her  long  cape 
over  her  arm,  she  ventured  into  the  hall. 

It  was  vacant  and  silent. 

She  stole  silently  down  the  stairs.  She  met 
nobody.  She  noiselessly  opened  the  front  door. 
Apparently  nobody  noticed  her.  She  walked 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  77 

briskly  down  the  steps;  turned  toward  the 
Avenue.  At  the  corner  something  impelled  her 
to  look  back. 

Byan,  his  look  directed  downward,  two  fingers 
fumbling  in  his  side  pocket  for  his  key,  was  briskly 
ascending  the  steps. 


Ill 

LINDSAY  drove  directly  from  the  Quinanog 
station  to  the  Quinanog  Arms.  The  Arms  proved 
to  be  a  tiny  mid-Victorian  hotel,  not  an  inexact 
replica — and  by  no  means  a  discreditable  one — 
of  many  small  rustic  hotels  that  he  had  seen  in 
England  and  France.  Indeed  Quinanog,  as  he 
caught  it  in  glimpses,  might  have  been  one  part 
of  France  or  one  part  of  England — that  region 
which  only  the  English  Channel  prevents  from 
being  the  same  country.  The  motor,  which  con- 
ducted him  from  the  station  to  the  Arms,  drove 
on  roads  in  which  high  wine-glass  elms  made 
Gothic  arches;  between  wide  meadowy  stretches, 
brilliant  with  buttercups,  daisies,  iris;  unassertive, 
well-proportioned  houses  with  roomy  vegetable 
plots  and  tiny  patches  here  and  there  of  flower 
garden.  He  arrived  at  so  early  an  hour  that 
the  best  of  the  long  friendly  day  stretched  before 
him.  He  felt  disposed  to  spend  it  merely  in  read- 
ing and  smoking.  He  had  plenty  to  smoke;  he 

78 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  79 

had  seen  to  that  himself  in  New  York.  And  he 
had  plenty  to  read;  Spink  Sparrel  had  seen  to 
that  in  Boston.  The  bottom  of  one  of  his  trunks 
was  covered  with  Lutetia  Murray's  works. 

But  although  he  smoked  a  great  deal,  he  did 
not  read  at  all.  Until  luncheon  he  merely  fol- 
lowed his  impulses.  Those  impulses  took  him  a 
little  way  down  the  main  street,  which  ran  be- 
tween- comfortable,  white  colonial  houses,  set 
back  from  the  road.  He  walked  through  the  tiny 
triangular  Common.  He  visited  the  little,  poster- 
hung  post-office;  looked  into  the  big  neatly  ar- 
ranged general  store;  strolled  back  again.  His 
impulses  then  led  him  to  explore  the  grounds  of 
the  Arms  and  deposited  him  finally  in  the  ham- 
mock on  the  side  porch.  After  a  simple  and  very 
well-cooked  luncheon,  his  languor  broke  into  a 
sudden  restlessness.  "  Where  is  the  Murray 
place?  "  he  asked  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Arms, 
whose  name,  the  letterhead  of  the  Arms  stationery 
stated,  was  Hyde. 

'  The  Murray  place !  "  Hyde  repeated  inquir- 
ingly. He  was  a  long,  noncommittal-looking  per- 
son with  big  pale  blue  eyes  illuminating  a  sandy 


8o  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

baldness.  "  Oh,  the  Murray  place !  You  mean 
the  old  Murray  place." 

"  I  mean  the  house,  whichever  and  wherever  it 
is,  that  Lutetia  Murray,  the  author,  used  to 
live  in." 

"  Oh,  sure !  I  get  you.  You  see  it's  been 
empty  for  such  a  long  spell  that  we  forget  all 
about  it.  The  old  Murray  place  is  on  the  road 
to  West  Quinanog." 

"  It  isn't  occupied,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Lord,  no !  Hasn't  been  lived  in  since — well, 
since  Lutetia  Murray  died.  And  that  was — let 
me  see — "  Hyde  cast  a  reflective  eye  upward. 
"  Ten,  eleven,  twelve — oh,  fifteen  or  twenty,  I 
should  say.  Yes,  all  of  fifteen  years." 

"  Does  it  still  belong  in  the  Murray  family?  " 

"  Lord  bless  your  soul,  no.  There  hasn't  been 
a  Murray  around  these  parts  since — well,  since 
Lutetia  Murray  died." 

"  Who  owns  it  now  ?  " 

"  The  Turners.  They  bought  it  when  it  came 
up  for  sale  after  Miss  Murray's  death." 

"Well,  weren't  there  any  heirs?" 

"  There  was  a  niece — her  brother's  little  girl. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  81 

They  had  to  sell  the  place  and  everything  in  it. 
There  never  was  a  sale  in  Quinanog  like  that. 
Why,  folks  say  that  the  mahogany  would  bring 
fancy  prices  in  New  York  nowadays." 

"  Didn't  they  get  as  much  as  they  should 
have?"  Lindsay  asked  idly. 

"  Oh  Lord,  no !  And  they  found  her  estate 
was  awful  involved,  and  the  debts  et  up  about  all 
the  auction  brought  in." 

"  What  became  of  the  little  girl?  " 

"  Some  cousins  took  her." 

"  Where  is  she  now?  " 

"  Never  heard  tell." 

"  Has  anybody  ever  lived  in  the  Murray  place 
since  the  family  left?" 

"  No,  I  believe  not." 

"  Is  it  to  let?" 

"  Yes,  and  for  sale." 

"  Well,  why  hasn't  it  let  or  sold?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dunno  exactly.  It's  a  great  big  barn 
of  a  place.  Kinda  ramshackle,  and  of  course  it's 
off  the  main-traveled  road.  You'd  need  a  flivver, 
at  least,  to  live  there  nowadays.  And  there  ain't 
a  single  modern  improvement  in  it.  No  bath- 


82  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

room,  nor  electric  lights,  not  set  tubs,  nor  any  of 
the  things  that  women  like.  No  garage  neither." 

"  Every  disability  you  quote  makes  it  sound  all 
the  better  to  me,"  Lindsay  commented.  He  medi- 
tated a  moment.  "  I'd  like  to  go  over  and  look 
at  it  this  afternoon.  Is  there  anyone  here  to  drive 
me?" 

"  Yes,  Dick'll  take  you  in  the  runabout." 
Hyde  appeared  to  meditate  in  his  turn,  and  he 
cocked  an  inquiring  eye  in  Lindsay's  direction. 
"  You  wasn't  thinking  of  hiring  the  place,  was 
you?" 

Lindsay  laughed.  "  I  should  say  I  wasn't. 
No,  I  just  wanted  to  look  at  it." 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  Hyde  went  on,  "  that 
it's  a  very  pleasant  location.  City  folks  always 
think  it's  a  lovely  spot.  If  you  was  thinking  of 
hiring  it,  my  brother's  the  agent." 

Lindsay  laughed  again.  "  Hiring  a  house  is 
about  as  far  from  my  plans  at  present  as  return- 
ing to  France." 

"  Well,"  Hyde  commented  dryly,  "  judging 
from  the  way  the  Quinanog  boys  feel,  I  guess  I 
know  just  about  how  much  you  want  to  do  that." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  83 

"  How  soon  can  we  go  to  the  Murray  place?  " 
Lindsay  inquired. 

"  Now — as  far  as  Dick's  concerned." 

"  By  the  way,"  Hyde  dropped,  as  he  turned  to- 
ward the  garage,  "  the  Murrays  called  the  place 
Blue  Medders." 

"  Blue  Meadows,"  Lindsay  repeated  aloud. 
And  to  himself,  "  Blue  Meadows."  And  again, 
though  wordlessly,  "  Blue  Meadows."  It  was  ap- 
parent that  he  liked  the  sound  and  the  image  the 
sound  evoked. 

The  runabout  chugged  to  Blue  Meadows  in 
less  than  ten  minutes.  The  road  branched  off 
from  the  State  highway  at  the  least  frequented 
place  in  its  ample  stretch;  ran  for  a  long  way  to 
West  Quinanog.  On  this  side  road,  houses  were 
few  and  they  grew  fewer  and  fewer  until  they  left 
Blue  Meadows  quite  by  itself.  Its  situation, 
though  solitary,  was  not  lonely.  It  sat  near  the 
road.  Perhaps,  Lindsay  decided,  it  would  have 
been  too  near  if  stately  wine-glass  elms,  feathered 
with  leaves  all  along  their  lissom  trunks,  in  col- 
laboration with  a  high  lilac  hedge  now  past  its 
blooming,  had  not  helped  to  sequester  it.  From 


84  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

the  street,  the  house  showed  only  a  roof  with  two 
capacious  chimneys,  the  upper  story  of  its  gray 
clapboarded  facade. 

Dick,  a  gangling  freckled  youth,  slowed  down 
the  machine  as  if  in  preparation  for  a  stop.  "  I've 
got  the  key,"  he  volunteered,  "  if  you  want  to 
go  in." 

Until  that  moment  Lindsay  had  entertained  no 
idea  of  going  in.  But  Dick's  words  fired  his 
imagination.  "  Thanks,  I  think  I  will." 

Dick  handed  over  the  long,  delicately  wrought 
key.  He  made  no  move  to  follow  Lindsay  out 
of  the  car.  "  If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "  I'll 
run  down  the  road  to  see  a  cousin  of  mine.  How 
soon  before  you'll  want  to  start  back?  " 

"  Oh,  give  me  half  an  hour  or  so,"  Lindsay 
decided  carelessly. 

The  runabout  chugged  into  the  green  arch 
which  imprisoned  the  distance. 

Alone,  Lindsay  strolled  between  lilac  bushes 
and  over  the  sunken  flags  which  led  to  the  front 
door.  Then,  changing  his  mind,  he  made  an  ap- 
praising tour  about  the  outside  of  the  place. 

Blue  Meadows  was  a  big  old  house :  big,  so 


OUT  OP  THE  AIR  85 

it  seemed  to  his  amateur  judgment,  by  an  in- 
credible number  of  rooms;  and  old — and  here  his 
judgment,  though  swift,  was  more  accurate — to 
the  time  of  two  hundred  years.  Outside,  it  had 
all  the  earmarks  of  Colonial  architecture — plain 
lines,  stark  walls,  the  windows,  with  twenty-four 
lights,  geometrically  placed;  but  its  lovely  lines, 
its  beautiful  proportions,  and  the  soft  plushy  nap 
which  time  had  laid  upon  its  front  clapboardings 
mitigated  all  its  severities.  The  shingles  of  the 
roof  and  sides  were  weather-beaten  and  gray,  the 
blinds  a  deep  old  blue.  At  one  side  jutted  an 
incongruous  modern  addition;  into  the  second 
story  of  which  was  set  a  galleried  piazza.  At  the 
other  side  stretched  an  endless  series  of  additions, 
tapering  in  size  to  a  tiny  shed. 

<c  This  is  Lutetia's  house !  "  Lindsay  stopped  to 
muse.  "  Is  it  true  that  I  spent  two  years  with  the 
French  Army?  Is  it  true  that  I  served  two  more 
with  the  American  Army  ?  Oh,  to  think  you  didn't 
live  to  see  all  that,  Lutetia !  " 

A  lattice  arched  over  the  doorway  and  on  it  a 
big  climbing  rose  was  just  coming  into  bud.  The 
beautiful  door  showed  the  pointed  architrave, 


86  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

the  leaded  side  panels,  the  fanlight,  the  engaged 
columns,  of  Colonial  times.  It  resisted  the  first 
attack  of  the  key,  but  yielded  finally  to  Lindsay's 
persuasion.  He  stepped  into  the  hall. 

It  was  a  rectangular  hall,  running  straight  to 
the  back  of  the  house.  Pairs  of  doors,  opposite 
each  other,  gaped  on  both  sides.  At  the  left  arose 
a  slender  straight  stairway,  mahogany-railed. 
Lindsay  strolled  from  one  room  to  the  other, 
opening  windows  and  blinds.  They  were  big 
square  rooms,  finished  in  the  conventional 
Colonial  manner,  with  fireplaces  and  fireplace  cup- 
boards. The  wallpaper,  faded  and  stained,  was 
of  course  quite  bare  of  pictures  and  ornaments. 
He  stopped  to  examine  the  carving  on  the  white, 
painted  panels  above  the  fireplace — garlands  of 
flowers  caught  with  torches  and  masks. 

Smiling  to  himself,  Lindsay  returned  to  the 
hall.  "  Oh,  Lutetia,  I  should  like  to  have  seen 
you  here !  "  he  remarked  wordlessly. 

Behind  the  stairway,  at  the  back,  appeared 
another  door.  He  opened  it  into  darkness. 
Fumbling  in  his  pocket,  he  produced  a  box  of 
matches,  lighted  his  way  through  the  blackness; 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  87 

again  opened  windows  and  shutters.  This  proved 
to  be  the  long  back  room  so  common  in  Colonial 
homes;  running  the  entire  width  of  the  house. 
There  were  two  fireplaces.  One  was  small,  with 
a  Franklin  stove.  The  other — Lindsay  calculated 
that  it  would  take  six-foot  logs.  Four  well- 
grown  children,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  could  have 
walked  into  it.  This  room  was  not  entirely 
empty.  In  the  center — by  a  miracle  his  stumbling 
progress  had  just  avoided  it — was  a  long  table  of 
the  refectory  type.  Lindsay  studied  the  position 
of  the  two  fireplaces.  He  examined  the  ceiling. 
"  You  threw  the  whole  lot  of  little  rooms  together 
to  make  this  big  room,  Lutetia.  You're  a  lady 
quite  of  my  own  architectural  taste.  I,  too,  like 
a  lot  of  space." 

He  continued  his  explorations.  From  one  side 
of  the  long  living-room  extended  kitchen,  laundry; 
servants'  rooms  and  servants'  dining-room;  an 
endless  maze  of  butteries,  pantries,  sheds.  Lind- 
say gave  them  short  shrift.  At  the  other  side, 
however,  lay  a  little  half-oval  room,  the  first  floor 
of  that  Victorian  addition  which  he  had  marked 
from  the  outside. 


88  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  Oh,  Lutetia,  Lutetia,  how  could  you,  how 
could  you?"  he  burst  out  at  first  glance.  "  To 
add  this  modern  bit  to  that  fine  Colonial  stateli- 
ness  1  Perhaps  we're  not  kindred  souls  after  all." 

Hugging  the  wall  of  this  room  and  leading  to 
the  second  floor  was  a  stairway  so  narrow  that 
only  one  person  could  mount  it  at  a  time.  Lind- 
say proved  this  to  his  own  satisfaction  by  ascend- 
ing it.  It  opened  into  a  big  back  room  of  the 
main  house,  the  one  with  the  galleried  piazza. 
Lindsay  opened  all  the  windows  here;  and  then 
went  rapidly  from  room  to  room,  letting  in  the 
June  sunshine. 

They  were  all  empty,  of  course — and  yet,  in  a 
dozen  plaintive  ways — faded  wall  spaces,  which 
showed  the  exact  size  of  pictures,  nails  with  carpet 
tufts  still  clinging  to  them,  a  forgotten  window 
shade  or  two — they  spoke  eloquently  of  .habita- 
tion. Indeed,  the  whole  place  had  a  friendly  at- 
mosphere, Lindsay  reflected;  there  was  none  of 
the  cold,  dead  connotation  of  most  long-empty 
houses.  This  old  place  was  spiritually  warm,  as 
though  some  reflection  of  a  long-ago  vivid  life 
still  hung  among  its  shadows.  From  the  dust,  the 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  89 

stains,  the  cobwebs,  it  might  have  been  vacant  for 
a  century.  From  the  welcoming  warmth  of  its 
quiet  rooms,  it  might  have  been  vacant  but  for  a 
day. 

Through  the  back  windows,  Lindsay  looked 
down  onto  what  must  once  have  been  a  huge 
rectangle  of  lawn;  and  near  the  house,  what  must 
once  have  been  an  oval  of  flower  garden.  The 
lawn,  stretching  to  a  stone  wall — beyond  which 
towered  a  chaos  of  trees — was  now  knee-deep  in 
timothy-grass;  the  garden  had  reverted  to  jungle. 
He  studied  the  garden.  Close  to  the  house,  an 
enormous  syringa  bush  heaped  into  a  mountain  of 
fragrant  snow.  Near,  a  smoke-bush  was  just  be- 
ginning to  bubble  into  rounds  of  blood-scarlet 
gauze.  Strangled  rosebushes  showed  yellow  or 
crimson.  Afar  an  enormous  patch  of  tiger  lilies 
gave  the  effect  of  a  bizarre,  orchidous  tropical 
group.  The  rest  was  an  indiscriminate  early- 
summer  tangle  of  sumac;  elderberry;  bayberry; 
silver  birches;  wild  roses;  daisies;  buttercups;  and 
what  would  later  be  Queen  Anne's  lace  and 
goldenrod.  From  a  back  corner  window,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  caught  a  glint  of  water; 


90  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

but  he  could  not  recapture  it  from  any  other  point 
of  view.  However,  he  lost  all  memory  of  this  in 
a  more  affording  discovery.  For  the  front  win- 
dows gave  him  the  reason  of  the  name,  Blue 
Meadows.  Across  the  road  stretched  a  series 
of  meadows,  all  bluish  purple  with  blooming 
iris. 

Lindsay  contemplated  this  charming  prospect 
for  a  long  interval. 

"  And  now,  Lutetia,"  he  suddenly  turned  and 
addressed  the  empty  rooms,  "  I  want  to  find  your 
room.  Which  of  these  six  was  it?  " 

Retracing  his  steps,  he  went  from  room  to 
room  until,  many  times,  he  had  made  a  complete 
survey  of  the  second  floor.  He  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  his  own  trail,  as  the  excitement  of  the 
quest  mounted  in  him. 

"  Ah!  "  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "  here  it  is!  You 
can't  escape  your  soul-mate,  Lutetia." 

It  was  not  because  the  room  was  so  much 
bigger  than  the  rest  that  he  made  this  decision; 
it  was  only  because  it  was  so  much  more  quaint. 
At  one  side  it  merged,  by  means  of  a  slender  door- 
way, with  the  galleried  piazza.  From  it,  by 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  91 

means  of  that  tiny  flight  of  stairs,  Lutetia  could 
have  descended  to  the  first  floor  of  that  mid- Vic- 
torian addition.  "  I  take  it  all  back,  Lutetia," 
he  approved.  "  Middle  of  the  nineteenth  century 
or  not,  it's  a  wonder — this  combination."  At  the 
back  of  Lutetia's  room  was  a  third  door;  as  slen- 
der as  the  door  leading  to  the  gallery,  but  much 
lower;  not  four  feet  high.  Lindsay  pushed  it 
open,  crawled  on  hands  and  knees  through  it.  He 
had  of  course,  on  his  first  exploration,  entered 
the  small  room  into  which  it  led.  But  he  had 
gone  in  and  out  without  careful  examination;  it 
had  seemed  merely  a  four-walled  room.  Coming 
into  it,  however,  from  Lutetia's  bedroom,  it  sud- 
denly acquired  character. 

The  walls  were  papered  in  white.  And  on  the 
mid- Victorian  dado  scarcely  legible  now,  he  sud- 
denly discovered  drawings.  Drawings  of  a  curi- 
ous character  and  of  a  more  curious  technique. 
He  followed  their  fluttery  maze  from  wall  to  wall 
— a  flight  of  little  beings,  winged  at  the  shoulders 
and  knees,  with  flying  locks  and  strange  finlike 
hands  and  feet;  fanciful,  comic,  tender. 

"  Oh  '."Lindsay  emitted  aloud.    "Ah!"    And 


92  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

in  an  instant:  "I  see!  This  room  belonged  to 
that  child  Hyde  spoke  of." 

He  ascended  to  the  garret.  This  was  of 
course  the  big  storeroom  of  the  Colonial  imagi- 
nation. It  too  was  quite  empty.  At  one  spot  a 
post — obviously  not  a  roof-support — ran  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  Lindsay  gazed  about  a  little 
unseeingly.  "  I  wonder  what  that  post  was  for?  " 
he  questioned  himself  absently.  After  a  while, 
"  What's  become  of  that  child?  "  he  demanded  of 
circumambient  space. 

As  though  this  offered  food  for  reflection,  he 
descended  by  means  of  the  main  stairway  to  the 
lower  floor;  sat  on  the  doorsteps  a  while.  He 
mused — gazing  out  into  the  green-colored,  sweet- 
scented  June  afternoon.  After  an  interval  he 
arose  and  repeated  his  voyage  of  exploration. 

Again  he  was  struck  with  the  friendly  quality 
of  the  old  place.  That  physical  dampness,  which 
long  vacant  houses  hold  in  solution,  seemed  en- 
tirely to  have  disappeared  before  the  flood  of 
June  sunshine.  The  spiritual  chill,  which  always 
accompanies  it — that  sinister  quality  so  connota- 
tive  of  congregations  of  evil  spirits — he  again  ob- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  93 

served  was  completely  lacking.  As  he  emerged 
from  one  room  to  enter  another,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  one  back  of  him  filled  with — companion- 
ship, he  described  it  to  himself.  As  he  continued 
his  explorations,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  room 
he  was  about  to  enter  would  offer  him  not  ghostly 
but  human  welcome.  That  human  welcome  did 
not  come,  of  course.  Instead,  there  surged  upon 
him  the  rich  odors  of  the  lilacs  and  syringas;  the 
staccato  greetings  of  the  birds. 

After  a  while  he  went  downstairs  again.  Sit- 
ting in  the  front  doorway,  he  fell  into  a  rich 
revery. 

This  was  where  Lutetia  Murray  wrote  the 
books  which  had  so  intrigued  his  boyish  fancy. 
Mentally  he  ran  over  the  list:  The  Sport  of  the 
Goddesses,  The  Weary  Time,  Mary  Towle,  Old 
Age,  Intervals,  With  Pitfall  and  with  Gin, 
Cynthia  Ware —  Details  came  up  before  his 
mental  vision  which  he  had  entirely  forgotten  and 
now  only  half  remembered;  dramatic  moments; 
descriptive  passages;  conversational  interludes; 
scenes;  epigrams  .  .  .  He  tried  to  imagine 
Lutetia  Murray  at  Blue  Meadows.  The  picture 


94  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

which,  in  college,  he  had  cut  from  a  book-house 
catalogue,  flashed  before  him;  he  had  found  it 
among  his  papers.  The  figure  was  standing  .  .  . 
He  had  looked  at  it  only  yesterday,  but  his  mas- 
culine observation  retained  no  details  of  the  gown 
except  that  it  left  her  neck  and  arms  bare.  The 
face  was  in  profile.  The  curling  hair  rose  to  a 
high  mass  on  her  head.  The  delicate  features 
were  mignonne,  except  for  the  delicious,  warm, 
lusciously  cut  mouth —  Was  she  blonde  or  brune  ? 
he  wondered.  She  died  at  forty-five.  To  David 
Lindsay  at  twenty-two,  forty-five  had  seemed  a  re- 
spectable old  age.  To  David  Lindsay  at  twenty- 
eight,  it  seemed  almost  young.  She  was  dead, 
of  course,  when  he  began  to  read  her.  Oh,  if  he 
could  only  have  met  her !  It  was  a  great  pity  that 
she  had  died  so  young.  Her  work — he  had  made 
a  point  of  this  in  his  thesis — had  already  swung 
from  an  erratic,  highly  colored  first  period  into  a 
more  balanced,  carefully  characterized  second 
period;  was  just  emerging  into  a  third  period  that 
was  the  union  of  these  two;  big  and  rounded  and 
satisfying.  But  death  had  cut  that  development 
short.  In  the  last  four  years  Lindsay  had  seen 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  95 

a  great  deal  of  death  and  often  in  atrocious  form. 
He  had  long  ago  concluded  that  he  had  thought 
on  the  end  of  man  all  the  thoughts  that  were  in 
him.  But  now,  sitting  in  the  scented  warmth  of 
Lutetia's  trellised  doorway,  he  found  that  there 
were  still  other  thoughts  which  he  could  think. 

The  runabout  chugged  up  the  road  presently. 
u  Ben  waiting  long?"  the  freckled  Dick  asked 
with  a  cheery  shamelessness. 

"  No,  I've  been  looking  the  house  over.  Won- 
derful old  place,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Don't  care  much  for  it  myself,"  Dick  an- 
swered. "  I  don't  like  anything  old — old  houses 
or  that  old  truck  the  summer  folks  are  always 
buying.  Things  can't  be  too  new  or  up-to-date 
for  me." 

Lindsay  did  not  appear  at  first  to  hear  this;  he 
was  still  bemused  from  the  experiences  of  the 
afternoon.  But  as  they  approached  the  Arms,  he 
emerged  from  his  daze  with  a  belated  reply. 
'  Well,  I  suppose  a  lot  of  people  feel  the  way 
you  do,"  he  remarked  vaguely.  "  Mr.  Hyde  tells 
me  that  the  Murray  place  hasn't  been  let  for  fif- 


96  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

teen  years.    I  expect  the  rest  of  the  people  around 
here  don't  like  old  houses." 

"  Oh,  that  ain't  the  reason  the  Murray  house 
hasn't  let,"  Dick  explained  with  the  scorn  of 
rustic  omniscience.  *  They  say  it's  haunted." 

"  What  rent  do  they  ask  for  the  Murray 
house  ?  "  Lindsay  asked  Hyde  that  evening. 

Hyde  scratched  the  back  of  his  head.  His  face 
contracted  with  that  mental  agony  which  afflicts 
the  Yankee  when  an  exact  statement  is  demanded 
of  him.  "  Well,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you 
could  get  it  for  two  hundred  dollars  the  season," 
he  finally  brought  out. 

Lindsay  considered,  but  apparently  not  Hyde's 
answer;  for  presently  he  came  out  with  a  differ- 
ent question.  u  Why  do  they  say  it's  haunted?  " 

Hyde  emitted  a  short  contemptuous  laugh. 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  house  in  the  country 
that's  been  empty  for  a  number  of  years  that 
worn't  considered  haunted?" 

"  No,"  Lindsay  admitted.  "  I  am  disap- 
pointed, though.  I  had  hoped  you  would  be  able 
to  tell  me  about  the  ghost." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  97 

"  Well,  I  can't,"  Hyde  asserted  scornfully, 
*'  nor  nobody  else  neither." 

The  two  men  smoked  in  silence. 

After  a  while  Lindsay  made  the  motions  pre- 
liminary to  rising.  He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe;  put  his  pipe  in  his  pocket;  withdrew  his 
feet  from  their  comfortable  elevation  on  the 
piazza  rail.  Finally  he  assembled  his  full  height 
on  the  floor,  but  not  without  a  prolonged  stretch- 
ing movement.  u  Well,"  he  said,  halfway 
through  the  yawn,  "  I  guess  you  can  tell  that 
brother  of  yours  that  I'm  going  to  hire  the 
Murray  house  for  the  season." 

Hyde  was  equally  if  not  more  degage.  He  did 
not  move;  nor  did  he  change  his  expression. 
"  All  right,"  he  commented  without  enthusiasm^ 
"  I'll  let  him  know.  How  soon  would  you  like  to 
go  in,  say?" 

"  As  soon  as  I  can  buy  a  bed."  Lindsay  dis- 
appeared through  the  doorway. 

Two  days  later  Lindsay  found  himself  com- 
fortably settled  at  Blue  Meadows.  Upstairs — he 
had  of  course  chosen  Lutetia's  room — was  a  cot 


98  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

and  a  bureau  of  soft  wood.  Downstairs  was  a 
limited  assortment  of  cheap  china;  cheaper 
cutlery;  the  meagerest  possible  cooking  equip- 
ment. 

But  there  was  an  atmosphere  given  to  Lind- 
say's room  by  Lutetia's  own  picture  hanging 
above  the  bureau.  And  another  to  the  living- 
room  by  Lutetia's  own  works — a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  ugly-proportioned,  ugly-colored,  late- 
nineteenth-century  volumes — ranged  on  the  broad 
shelf  above  the  fireplace;  by  Lindsay's  writing 
materials  scattered  over  the  refectory  table.  Eco- 
nomical as  he  had  been  inside,  he  had  exploded 
into  extravagance  outside.  A  Gloucester  ham- 
mock swung  at  the  back.  A  collection  of  garden 
materials  which  included  a  scythe,  a  spade,  a 
sickle,  a  lawn-mower,  and  a  hose  filled  one  corner 
of  the  barn.  Already — his  back  still  complained 
of  the  process — he  had  cut  the  spacious  lawn. 

He  was  at  one  and  the  same  time  sanely  placid 
and  wildly  happy. 

Every  morning  he  awoke  with  the  sun  and  the 
birds.  Adapting  himself  with  an  instant  spiritual 
content  to  the  fact  that  he  was  no  longer  in  France 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  99 

and  would  not  have  to  fly,  he  turned  over  to  take 
another  nap.  An  hour  or  two  later,  he  was  up 
and  eating  his  self-prepared  breakfast.  The  rest 
of  the  day  was  reading  Lutetia;  musing  on 
Lutetia;  "  scything  "  or  "  sickling,"  as  he  called 
it  in  his  letters  to  Spink,  in  the  garden;  reflecting 
on  Lutetia;  exploring  the  neighborhood  on  foot; 
meditating  on  Lutetia ;  reading  and  rereading  the 
mass  of  Spink's  data  on  Lutetia;  hosing  the 
garden;  making  notes  on  Spink's  data  on  Lutetia 
and  thinking  of  his  notes  on  Spink's  data  on 
Lutetia.  He  awoke  in  the  morning  with  Lutetia 
on  his  mind.  He  fell  asleep  at  night  with  Lutetia 
in  his  heart.  He  had  come  to  realize  that  Lutetia, 
the  author,  was  even  better  than  he  had  supposed 
her.  His  college  thesis  had  described  her  merely 
as  the  Mrs.  Gaskell  of  New  England.  Now, 
mentally,  he  promoted  her  to  its  Jane  Austen. 
His  youth  had  risen  to  the  lure  of  her  color  and 
fecundity,  but  his  youngness  had  not  realized  how 
rich  she  was  in  humor;  how  wise;  what  a  tender- 
ness for  people  informed  her  careful,  realistic 
detail.  It  was  a  triumph  to  find  her  even  better 
than  the  flattering  dictum  of  his  boyish  judgment. 


TOO  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Exploring  Lutetia's  domain  gave  results  only 
second  in  satisfaction  to  exploring  Lutetia's  mind. 
It  was  obvious  at  his  first  inspection  that  the 
garden  had  once  stretched  contrasting  glories  of 
color  and  perfume.  A  careful  study  from  the 
windows  was  even  more  productive  than  a  close 
survey.  There,  definitely,  he  could  trace  the  re- 
mains of  flower-plots;  pleached  paths;  low  hedges 
and  lichened  rocks.  Resurrecting  that  garden 
would  be  an  integral  part  of  the  joy  of  resurrect- 
ing Lutetia.  By  this  time  also,  he  had  explored 
the  barn.  There,  a  big  roomy  lower  floor  sus- 
tained only  part  of  a  broken  stairway.  The 
equally  roomy  upper  floor  seemed,  from  such 
glimpses  as  he  could  get  below,  to  be  piled  with 
rubbish.  Some  day,  he  promised  himself,  he 
would  clean  it  out.  Beyond,  and  to  the  right  of 
the  barn,  bounded  by  the  stone  wall,  scrambled  a 
miniature  wilderness.  That  wilderness  evaded 
-every  effort  of  exploration.  Only  an  axe  could 
clear  a  trail  there.  Another  day  he  would  tackle 
the  wilderness.  But  in  the  meantime  he  would 
devote  himself  to  garden  and  lawn;  in  the  mean- 
time also  loaf  and  invite  his  soul.  After  all,  that 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  lor 

was  his  main  reason  for  coming  to  Quinanog.. 
Whenever  he  thought  of  this,  he  took  immediately 
to  the  Gloucester  hammock. 

Every  morning  he  walked  briskly  over  the  long- 
mile  of  road,  shaded  with  wine-glass  elms,  slashed 
with  vistas  of  pasture,  pond,  and  brook  which  lay 
between  Blue  Meadows  and  the  Quinanog  post- 
office.  When  he  had  inquired  for  his  mail — 
usually  he  had  none — he  strolled  over  to  the  gen- 
eral store  and  made  his  few  simple  purchases. 
He  had  followed  this  routine  for  ten  days  be- 
fore it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  seen  a 
newspaper  since  he  settled  himself  at  Blue 
Meadows.  "  I'll  let  it  go  that  way,  I  guess,"  he 
said  to  himself.  He  noticed  at  first  with  a  little 
embarrassment  and  then  with  amusement  that  the 
groups  in  the  post-office  waiting  for  mail,  the  cus- 
tomers at  the  general  store,  were  all  quietly  watch- 
ing him.  And  one  morning  this  floated  to  him 
from  behind  a  pile  of  cracker  boxes : 

"  He's  the  nut  that's  taken  the  Murray  place. 
Lives  all  alone — batching  it.  Some  sort  of  high- 
brow." 

Gradually,    however,    he    made    acquaintance^ 


102  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Silas  Turner,  who  owned  the  next  farm  to  Blue 
Meadows,  offered  him  a  ride  one  morning  on  the 
road.  Out  of  a  vague  conversation  on  the 
weather  and  real  estate,  Mr.  Turner  dropped  one 
interesting  fact.  He  had  known  Lutetia  Murray. 
This  revelation  kept  Lindsay  chatting  for  half  an 
hour  while  Mr.  Turner  spilled  a  mass  of  uncor- 
related  details.  Such  as  Miss  Murray's  neigh- 
borliness;  the  time  her  cow  ran  away  and  Art 
Curtis  brought  it  back;  how  Miss  Murray  ad- 
mired Mis'  Turner's  beach  plum  jelly  so  much 
that  Mis'  Turner  always  made  some  extra  just 
for  her.  As  they  parted  he  let  fall  dispassion- 
ately: "She  was  a  mighty  handsome  woman. 
Fine  figure !  "  He  added,  still  dispassionately  but 
with  an  effect  somehow  of  enthusiastic  conviction, 
"  She  kept  her  looks  to  the  last  day  of  her  life." 
Useless,  all  this,  for  a  biography,  Lindsay  re- 
flected; but  it  gave  him  an  idea.  He  bought  that 
day  a  second-hand  bicycle  at  the  Quinanog 
garage;  and  thereafter,  when  the  devil  of  rest- 
lessness stirred  in  his  young  muscles,  he  trundled 
about  the  countryside  in  search  of  those  families 
mentioned  in  Lutetia's  letters.  Some  were  ut- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  103 

terly  gone  from  Quinanog,  some  were  not  afford- 
ing, and  some  added  useful  detail;  as  when  old 
Mrs.  Apperson  produced  a  dozen  letters  written 
from  Europe  during  Lutetia's  first  trip  abroad. 
"  I'd  have  admired  to  go  to  Europe,  but  it  never 
came  so's  I  could,"  said  Mrs.  Apperson.  "  When 
Miss  Murray  went,  she  wrote  me  from  every  city, 
telling  me  all  about  it.  I  read  'em  over  a  lot — 
makes  me  feel  as  though  I'd  been  there  too.  And 
every  Decoration  Day,"  she  added  inconsequently, 
"  I  put  a  bunch  of  heliotrope  on  her  grave.  She 
just  loved  the  smell  of  heliotrope." 

Somehow,  Lindsay  had  never  even  thought  of 
Lutetia's  grave.  The  next  day  he  made  that  pil- 
grimage. The  graveyard  lay  near  the  town 
center,  overtopped  by  the  pine-covered  hill  which 
bore  three  austere  white  buildings — church,  town- 
hall,  and  grange.  The  grave  itself  was  in  a  patch 
of  modern  tombstones,  surrounded  by  the  flak- 
ing slabs  of  two  centuries  ago.  The  stone  was 
featureless,  ill-proportioned;  the  inscription  re- 
corded nothing  but  her  name  and  the  dates  of 
her  birth  and  death. 

The  note  which  most  often  came  out  of  these 


104  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

wayside  gossipings  was  a  high  one — of  the  gaiety 
and  the  brilliancy  of  the  Blue  Meadows  hospital- 
ity. Apparently  people  were  coming  and  going 
all  the  time;  some  distinguished;  some  undiscov- 
ered: but  all  with  personality.  When  Lindsay 
returned  from  such  a  talk,  the  old  house  glowed 
like  an  opal — so  full  did  it  seem  of  the  colors  of 
those  vivacious  days. 

But  he  was  not  quite  content  to  be  long  away 
from  his  own  fireside.  The  friendly  atmosphere 
of  the  Murray  house  continued  to  exercise  its  en- 
chanting sway.  He  always  felt  that  one  room 
became  occupied  the  instant  he  left  it,  that  the 
one  he  was  about  to  enter  was  already  occupied 
— and  this  feeling  grew  day  by  day,  augmented. 
It  brought  him  back  to  the  house  always  with  a 
sense  of  expectancy.  "  Lutetia's  house  is  my 
hotel-lobby,  my  movie,  my  theater,  my  grand 
opera,  my  cabaret,"  he  wrote  Spink.  *  There's 
a  strange  fascination  about  it — a  fascination  with 
an  element  of  eternal  promise. " 

At  times,  when  he  entered  the  trellised  door- 
way, he  found  himself  expecting  someone  to  come 
forward  to  greet  him.  It  kept  occurring  to  him 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  105 

that  a  neighbor  had  stopped  to  call,  was  waiting 
inside  for  him.  Sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  would  drift  slowly  out  of  a  delicious  sleep 
to  a  sense,  equally  delicious,  of  being  most  gently 
and  lovingly  companioned  in  the  room;  some- 
times in  the  morning  he  would  wake  up  with  a 
snap,  as  though  the  house  were  full  of  company. 
For  a  moment  the  whole  place  would  seem  bril- 
liant and  gay,  and  then — it  was  as  though  a  bubble 
burst  in  the  air — he  was  alone.  "  It's  almost  as 
good,'7  he  wrote  Spink,  "  as  though  you  were 
here  yourself,  you  goggle-eyed  hick,  you !  "  Once 
or  twice  he  caught  himself  talking  aloud;  address- 
ing the  empty  air.  He  stifled  this  impulse,  how- 
ever. "  People  always  have  a  tendency  to  get 
bughouse,"  he  explained  to  Spink,  "  when  they 
live  alone.  I  used  to  do  that  in  your  rooms.  I'm 
going  to  try  to  keep  sane  as  long  as  possible." 

Ten  days  increased  rather  than  diminished  this 
impression.  By  this  time  he  had  burned  his  thesis 
and  was  now  making  notes  that  were  part  the 
direct  product  of  Spink' s  data  and  part  the  by- 
product of  Lutetia's  own  works.  The  syringas 
were  beginning  to  run  down;  but  the  roses  were 


106  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

coming  out  in  great  numbers.  The  hollyhocks 
had  opened  flares  of  color  under  the  living-room 
window.  The  lawn  was  as  close  to  plush  as 
constant  care  could  make  it.  The  garden  was 
not  yet  quite  cleaned  out.  He  was  glad,  for  he 
liked  working  there.  It  was  not  a  whit  less 
friendly  than  the  house.  Indeed,  he  felt  so  com- 
panioned there  that  sometimes  he  looked  up  sud- 
denly to  see  who  was  watching  his  efforts  to  resur- 
rect a  neglected  rosebush;  or  to  uproot  a  flourish- 
ing patch  of  poison  ivy.  The  evenings  were  long, 
and  as — consciously  girlish  and  in  quotation 
marks  he  wrote  Spink — u  lovely."  His  big  lamp 
made  a  spot  of  golden  color  in  the  shadowy  long 
room.  One  northeaster,  which  lasted  three  days, 
gave  him  dark  and  damp  excuse  for  three  days  of 
roaring  fire.  Much  of  that  time  he  sat  opposite 
the  blazing  logs  in  the  big,  rush-bottomed  piazza 
chair  which  he  had  purchased,  smoking  and  read- 
ing Lutetia.  Now  and  then,  he  looked  up  at 
Lutetia's  picture,  which  he  had  finally  brought 
down  from  his  bedroom. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  picture  which  made  him 
feel  more  companioned  here  than  anywhere  in 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  107 

the  house  or  out.  The  living-room  was  peculiarly 
rich  with  presence,  so  rich  that  he  left  it  reluc- 
tantly at  night  and  returned  to  it  as  quickly  as 
possible  in  the  morning;  so  rich  that  often  he 
smiled,  though  why  he  could  not  have  said;  so 
rich  that  in  the  evening  he  often  looked  up  sud- 
denly from  his  book  and  stared  into  its  shadowy 
length  for  a  long,  moveless — and  breathlessly  ex- 
pectant— interval. 

Indeed  that  sensation  so  concretely,  so  steadily, 
so  persistently  augmented  that  one  evening — 

He  had  been  reading  ever  since  dark;  and  it 
was  getting  late.  Finally  he  arose;  closed  the 
door  and  windows.  He  came  back  to  the  table 
and  stood  leaning  against  it,  idly  whistling  the 
Sambre  et  Meuse  through  his  teeth,  while  he 
looked  at  Lutetia's  portrait. 

He  took  up  The  Sport  of  the  Goddesses  just 
to  look  it  over  .  .  .  turned  a  page  or  two  .  .  . 
became  immersed.  .  .  .  Suddenly  ...  he  real- 
ized that  he  was  not  alone.  .  .  . 

He  was  not  alone.  That  was  conclusive.  That 
he  suddenly  and  absolutely  knew;  though  how  he 
knew  it  he  could  not  guess.  His  eyes  stopped,  in 


io8  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

the  midst  of  Lutetia's  single  grim  murder,  fixed  on 
the  printed  line.  He  could  not  move  them  along 
that  line.  He  did  not  mind  that.  But  he  could 
not  move  them  off  the  page.  And  he  did  mind 
that;  for  he  wanted — most  intensely  wanted — to 
lift  his  gaze.  After  lifting  it,  he  presently  dis- 
covered, he  would  want  to  project  it  to  the  left. 
Whoever  his  visitor  was,  it  sat  at  the  left. 
That  he  knew,  completely,  absolutely,  and  con- 
clusively; but  again,  how  he  knew  it,  he  did  not 
know. 

An  immeasurable  interval  passed. 

He  tried  to  raise  his  eyes.  He  could  not  accom- 
plish it.  The  air  grew  thick ;  his  hands,  still  hold- 
ing the  book,  turned  cold  and  hard  as  clamps  of 
iron.  His  eyes  smarted  from  their  unwinking  im- 
mobility. This  was  absurd.  Breaking  this 
deathly  ossification  was  just  a  matter  of  will.  He 
made  himself  turn  a  page.  Five  lines  down  he 
decided;  he  would  look  up.  But  he  did  not  look 
up.  He  could  not.  He  wanted  to  see  ...  but 
something  stronger  than  desire  and  will  withheld 
him.  He  read;  turned  another  page.  Five  lines 
down 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  109 

Ah  .  .  .  the  paralysing  chill  was  moving  off. 
.  .  .  In  a  moment  ...  he  was  going  to  be 
able.  .  .  .  In  a  moment  .  .  . 

He  lifted  his  eyes.  ...  He  gazed  steadily  to 
the  left. 


IV 

BEFORE  night  Susannah  had  found  a  room  which 
exactly  suited  her  purpose.  This  was  as  much  a 
matter  of  design  as  of  luck.  She  had  heard  of  the 
place  before.  It  was  a  large  building  in  the  West 
Twenties  which  had  formerly  been  the  imposing 
parsonage  of  an  imposing  and  very  important 
church.  The  church  had  long  ago  gone  the  way 
of  all  old  Manhattan  buildings.  But  the  parson- 
age, divided  into  an  infinite  number  of  cubby-hole 
rooms,  had  become  a  lodging-house.  A  lodging- 
house  with  a  difference,  however.  For  whereas 
in  the  ordinary  establishment  of  this  kind,  one 
paid  rent  to  a  landlady  who  lived  on  the  spot,  here 
one  paid  it  to  an  agent  who  came  from  some- 
where, promptly  every  Monday  morning,  for  the 
purpose  of  collection.  It  was  a  perfect  hiding- 
place.  You  did  not  know  your  neighbor.  Your 
neighbor  did  not  know  you.  With  due  care,  one 
could  plan  his  life  so  that  he  met  nobody. 

no 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  in 

Susannah,  except  for  a  choice  of  rooms,  did  not 
for  an  interval  plan  her  life  at  all.  She  made  that 
choice  instantly,  however.  Of  two  rooms  situated 
exactly  opposite  each  other  at  the  back  of  the 
second  floor,  she  chose  one  because  it  overlooked 
a  yard  containing  a  tree.  It  was  a  tiny  room, 
whitewashed;  meagerly  and  nondescriptly  fur- 
nished. But  the  door-frame  and  window-frame  of- 
fered decoration.  Following  the  ecclesiastical  de- 
sign of  the  whole  house,  they  peaked  into  triangles 
of  carved  wood. 

Susannah  gave  scant  observation  to  any  of 
these  things.  Once  alone  in  her  room,  she  locked 
the  door.  Then  she  removed  two  things  from  her 
suitcase — a  nightgown  and  the  miniature  of  Glori- 
ous Lutie.  The  latter  she  suspended  by  a  thumb- 
tack beside  the  mirror  of  her  bureau.  Then  she 
undressed  and  went  to  bed.  She  slept  fitfully  all 
the  rest  of  that  day  and  all  that  night.  Early  in 
the  morning  she  crept  out,  bought  herself,  at  a 
Seventh  Avenue  delicatessen  shop,  a  jar  of  milk 
and  a  loaf  of  bread.  She  lunched  and  dined  in 
her  room.  She  breakfasted  next  morning  on  the 
remains. 


H2  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Her  sleep  was  deep  and  dreamless;  but  in  her 
waking  moments  her  thoughts  pursued  the  same 
treadmill. 

"  Glorious  Lutie,"  she  began  one  of  the  word- 
less monologues  which  she  was  always  addressing 
to  the  miniature,  u  I  ought  to  have  known  long 
ago  that  they  were  a  gang  of  crooks  1  Why  don't 
we  trust  our  intuitions  ?  I  suppose  it's  because  our 
intuitions  are  not  always  right.  I  can't  quite  go 
with  anything  so  magic,  so  irrational  as  intuition ! 
And  then  again  I'm  afraid  I'm  too  logical.  But 
I'm  always  having  the  same  thing  happen  to  me. 
Perhaps  I'm  talking  with  somebody  I  have  met 
for  the  first  time.  Suddenly  that  person  makes 
a  statement.  Instantly — it's  like  a  little  hammer 
knocking  on  my  mind — something  inside  me  says : 
4  That  is  a  lie.  He  is  lying  deliberately  and  he 
knows  he  lies.'  Now  you  would  think  that  I 
would  trust  that  lead,  that  I  would  follow  it  im- 
plicitly. But  do  I  ?  No !  Never !  I  pay  no 
more  attention  to  it  than  as  though  it  never  hap- 
pened. And  generally  my  intuition  is  right.  But 
always  I  find  it  out  too  late.  Now  that  little  ham- 
mer has  been  knocking  its  warnings  about  the 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  113 

Warner-Byan-O'Hearn  bunch  ever  since  I  started 
to  work  for  them.  But  I  could  not  make  myself 
pay  any  attention  to  it.  I  did  not  want  to  believe 
it,  for  one  thing.  And  then  of  course  the  work 
was  awfully  interesting.  I  kept  calling  myself  all 
kinds  of  names  for  thinking —  And  they  were 
kind.  I  wouldn't  believe  it.  But  my  intuition 
kept  telling  me  that  Warner  was  a  hypocrite. 
And  as  for  By  an — " 

Perhaps  Susannah  could  not  voice,  even  to 
Glorious  Lutie,  the  thoughts  that  flooded  her 
mind  when  she  conjured  up  the  image  of  Byan. 
For  in  her  heart  Susannah  knew  that  Byan  ad- 
mired her  overmuch,  that  he  would  have  liked  to 
flirt  with  her,  that  he  had  started —  But  Warner 
had  called  him  off.  The  enigmatic  phrase,  which 
had  come  to  her  from  Warner's  office  and  in 
Warner's  voice,  recurred.  "  Keep  off  clients  and 
office  employ — "  Susannah  knew  the  end  of  it 
now — "  employees  "  of  course.  Warner's  rule 
for  his  fellow  crooks  was  that  they  must  not  flirt 
with  clients  or  the  office  force.  Again  and  again 
in  her  fitful  wakefulness  she  saw  Byan  standing 
before  her;  slim,  blade-like;  his  smartly  cut  suit 


ii4  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

adhering,  as  though  pasted  there,  to  the  lithe  lines 
of  his  active  body.  And  then  suddenly  that  re- 
volver which  came  from — where?  Byan  was  of 
course  the  most  attractive  of  them  all.  That 
floating,  pathetic  smile  revealed  such  white  teeth ! 
That  deep  look  came  from  eyes  so  long-lashed! 
Warner  with  his  pseudo-clergyman,  pseudo-actor 
oratory,  deep-voiced  and  vibrant,  was  the  most 
obvious.  O'Hearn,  his  lids  perpetually  down,  ex- 
cept when  they  lifted  swiftly  to  let  his  glance  lick 
up  detail,  was  the  most  mysterious.  But  Byan 
was  the  most  attractive — 

*  Yes,  Glorious  Lutie,  I  was  always  receiving 
letters  which  started  that  little  hammer  of  intui- 
tion knocking.  I  was  always  overhearing  bits  of 
conversation  which  started  it;  although  often  I 
could  not  understand  a  word.  I  was  always  try- 
ing to  piece  things  together — wondering —  Well, 
the  next  time  I'll  know  better.  I've  learned  my 
lesson.  But  oh — think,  think,  think  what  I've 
Jhelped  to  do.  They  robbed  widows  and  orphans 
and  all  kinds  of  helpless  people.  Of  course  I 
didn't  know  I  was  doing  it.  But  that's  going  to 
haunt  me  for  a  long,  long  time.  I  wish  there  were 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  115 

some  way  I  could  make  up.  I've  come  out  of  it 
safe.  But  they — oh,  I  mustn't  think  of  this.  I 
mustn't.  I  can't  stand  it  if  I  do.  Oh,  Glorious 
Lutie,  believe  me,  my  guardian  angel  was  certainly 
on  that  job.  Otherwise  I  don't  know  what  would 
have  become  of  me.  Are  you  my  guardian  angel, 
I  wonder?" 

When  Susannah  finally  arose  for  good,  she  dis- 
covered, naturally  enough,  that  she  was  hungry. 
She  went  out  immediately  and,  in  the  nearest 
Child's  restaurant,  ordered  a  dinner  which  she 
afterward  described  to  Glorious  Lutie  as  "  mag- 
nanimously, munificently,  magnificently  mascu- 
line." It  consisted  mainly  of  sirloin  steak  and 
boiled  potatoes,  "  and  I  certainly  ate  my  fill  of 
them  both."  Then  she  took  a  little  aimless,  cir- 
cumscribed walk;  returned  to  her  room.  She  un- 
packed her  tightly  stratified  suitcase;  hung  her 
clothes  in  her  little  closet;  ranged  her  small 
articles  in  the  bureau  drawer.  As  though  she 
were  going  to  start  clean  in  her  new  career,  she 
bathed  and  washed  her  hair  in  the  public  bath- 
room on  the  second  floor.  Coming  back  into  her 
room,  she  sat  for  a  long  time  before  the  window 


n6  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

while  her  dripping  locks  dried.     She  sat  there 
through  the  dusk. 

u  After  all,  Glorious  Lutie,"  she  reflected  con- 
tentedly, "  why  do  I  ever  live  in  anything  bigger 
than  a  hall  bedroom?  All  a  girl  needs  is  a  bed, 
a  bureau,  one  chair  and  a  closet,  and  that  is 
exactly  what  I've  got.  And  for  full  measure  they 
have  thrown  in  all  those  ducky  little  backyards 
and  a  tree.  I  don't  expect  you  to  believe  it,  but 
I  tell  you  true.  A  tree  in  Manhattan.  How  do 
you  suppose  it  got  by  the  censor!  And  just  now, 
if  you  please,  a  tiny  new  moon  all  tangled  up  in  its 
branches.  It's  trying  its  best  to  get  out,  but  it 
can't  make  it.  I  never  saw  a  new  moon  struggle 
so  hard.  Honest,  I  can  hear  it  pant  for  breath. 
It  looks  like  a  silver  fish  that  tried  to  leap  out  of 
this  window  and  got  caught  in  a  green  net.  I  sup- 
pose your  Glorious  Susie  must  be  thinking  of  an- 
nexing a  job  sometime,  Glorious  Lutie.  Or  else 
we'll  cease  to  eat.  But  for  a  few  days  I  won't,  if 
you  don't  mind;  I'm  fed  up  on  jobs.  And  I've 
lost  my  taste  for  offices.  No,  I  think  I'll  take 
those  few  days  off  and  do  a  rubberneck  trip 
around  Manhattan.  I  feel  like  looking  on  inno- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  117 

cent  objects  that  can't  speak  or  think.  And  for  a 
time  I  don't  want  to  go  any  place  where  I'd  be 
likely  to  see  my  friends  of  the  Carbonado  Mining 
Company.  After  a  while  the  thought  of  them 
won't  bother  me  so.  Probably  by  this  time  they 
have  hired  some  other  poor  girl.  Perhaps  she 
won't  mind  Mr.  Cowler  though.  Anyway, 
I'm  free  of  them." 

When  Susannah  awoke  the  next  morning,  which 
was  the  third  of  her  occupancy  of  the  little  room, 
some  of  her  normal  vitality  had  flowed  back,  her 
spirits  began  to  mount.  She  sang — she  even 
whistled — as  she  bathed  and  dressed;  and  she  in- 
dulged in  no  more  than  the  usual  number  of  exas- 
perated exclamations  over  the  uncoilableness  of 
her  freshly  shampooed,  sparkling  hair.  '*  Why 
do  we  launder  our  tresses,  I  ask  you,  Glorious 
Lutie?"  she  questioned  once.  "  And  oh,  why 
didn't  I  have  regular  gold  hair  like  yours  instead 
of  this  garnet  mane  ?  I  look  like — -I  look  like — 
Azinnia !  But  oh,  I  ought  never  to  complain 
when  I  reflect  that  I've  escaped  the  curse  of  white 
eyelashes." 

A  consideration  first  of  the  shimmery  day  out- 


n8  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

side,  and  next  of  the  clothes  hanging  in  her  closet, 
deflected  her  attention  from  this  grievance.  She 
chose  from  her  closet  a  salmon-colored  linen  gown, 
slightly  faded  to  a  delicate  golden  rose.  It  was  a 
long,  slim  dress  and  it  made  as  much  as  possible 
of  every  inch  of  Susannah's  long  slimness.  More- 
over, it  was  notably  successful  in  bringing  out  the 
blue  of  her  brilliant  eyes,  the  red  of  her  brilliant 
hair,  the  contrasting  white  of  her  smooth  warm 
skin.  That  face  now  so  shone  and  smelled  of  soap 
that,  the  instant  she  caught  sight  of  it  in  the  glass, 
she  pulled  open  the  top  drawer  of  her  bureau  and 
powdered  it  fraatically. 

"  I  always  shine,  Glorious  Lutie,  as  though  I 
had  washed  with  brass  polish.  I  don't  remember 
that  you  ever  glistened.  But  I  do  remember  that 
you  always  smelled  as  sweet  as — roses,  or  new- 
mown  hay,  or  heliotrope.  I  wonder  what  powder 
you  did  use?  And  it  was  a  very  foxy  move  on 
your  part,  to  have  yourself  painted  in  just  that 
soft  swirl  of  blue  tulle.  You  look  as  though  you 
were  rising  from  a  cloud.  I  wonder  what  your 
dresses  were  like?  I  seem  to  remember  pale 
blues  and  pinks;  very  delicate  yellows  and  the 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  119 

most  silvery  grays.  It  seems  to  me  that  tulle  and 
tarlatan  and  maline  were  your  dope.  Do  you 
think,  Glorious  Lutie,  when  I  reach  your  age,  I 
shall  be  as  good-looking  as  you?  " 

Glorious  Lutie,  with  that  reticence  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  inhabitants  of  portraits,  made  no 
answer.  But  an  observer  might  have  said  that 
the  young  face,  staring  alternately  at  the  mirror 
and  at  the  miniature,  would  some  day  mature  to 
a  face  very  like  the  one  which  stared  back  at  it 
from  the  gold  frame.  Both  were  blonde.  But 
where  Glorious  Lutie's  eyes  were  a  misty  brown- 
lashed  azure,  Glorious  Susie's  were  a  spirited 
dark-lashed  turquoise.  Glorious  Lutie's  hair  was 
like  a  golden  crown,  beautifully  carved  and  bur- 
nished. Glorious  Susie's  turbulent  mane  was  red, 
and  it  made  a  rumpled,  coppery  bunch  in  her  neck. 
However,  family  resemblances  peered  from  every 
angle  of  the  two  faces,  although  differences  of 
temperament  made  sharp  contrast  of  their  expres- 
sions. Glorious  Lutie  was  all  soft,  dreamy  ten- 
derness; Susannah,  all  spirit,  active  charm,  reso- 
lution. 

Susannah  spent  three  days — almost  carefree — 


120  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

of  what  she  described  to  the  miniature  as  "  tour- 
isting."  She  had  very  little  time  to  converse  with 
Glorious  Lutie;  for  the  little  room  saw  her  only 
at  morning  and  night.  But  she  gave  her  confi- 
dante a  detailed  account  of  the  day's  adventures. 
"  It  was  the  Bronx  Zoo  this  morning,  Glorious 
Lutie,"  she  would  say.  "  Have  you  ever  noticed 
how  satisfactory  little  beasties  are?  They  don't 
lay  traps  for  you  and  try  to  put  you  in  a  tortured 
position  that  you  can't  wriggle  out  of  ?  "  Though 
her  question  was  humorous  in  spirit,  Susannah's 
eyes  grew  black,  as  with  a  sudden  terror.  "  No, 
we  lay  traps  for  them.  I  guess  I've  never  before 
even  tried  to  guess  what  it  means  to  be  trapped?  " 
Or,  u  It  was  the  Art  Museum  this  afternoon, 
Glorious  Lutie.  I've  looked  at  everything  from 
a  pretty  nearly  life-size  replica  of  the  Parthenon 
to  a  needle  used  by  a  little  Egyptian  girl  ten  mil- 
lion years  ago.  I'm  so  full  of  information  and 
dope  and  facts  that,  if  an  autopsy  were  to  be  held 
over  me  at  this  moment,  it  would  be  found  that 
my  brain  had  turned  into  an  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica.  In  fact,  I  will  modestly  admit  that  I 
know  everything."  Or,  "  It  was  the  Aquarium 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  121 

this  morning,  Glorious  Lutie.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  fish  were  interesting?  I've  always 
hated  a  fish.  They  won't  roll  over  or  jump 
through  for  you  and  practically  none  of  them  bark 
or  sing — or  anything.  I  have  always  thought  of 
them  only  as  something  you  eat  unwillingly  on 
Fridays.  But  some  of  them  are  really  beautiful; 
and  interesting.  I  stayed  there  three  hours;  and 
I  suppose  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  horrid  stenchy 
smell  I'd  be  there  yet." 

But  in  spite  of  these  vivacious,  wordless  mono- 
logues, her  spirits  were  a  long  time  rising  to  their 
normal  height.  The  frightened  look  had  not  com- 
pletely left  her  eyes;  and  often  on  her  long,  lonely 
walks,  she  would  stop  short  suddenly,  trembling 
like  a  spirited  horse,  as  though  some  inner  con- 
sideration harassed  her.  Then  she  would  take  up 
her  walk  at  a  frantic  pace.  Ultimately,  how- 
ever, she  succeeded  in  leaving  those  terrifying  con- 
siderations behind.  And  inevitably  in  the  end,  the 
resilience  of  youth  conquered.  The  day  came 
when  Susannah  leaped  out  of  bed  as  lightly  as 
though  it  were  her  first  morning  in  New  York. 

"  Glorious   Lutie,"    began   her   ante-breakfast 


122  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

address,  "  we  are  not  a  millionairess;  ergo,  today 
we  buy  all  the  morning  papers  and  read  them  at 
breakfast  in  order  to  hunt  for  a  job  via  the  ads. 
And  perhaps  the  next  time  your  Glorious  Susie 
begins  to  earn  money,  you  might  advise  her  to 
save  a  little  against  an  unexpected  situation.  Of 
course  I  shouldn't  have  squandered  my  money  the 
way  I  did.  But  I  never  had  had  so  much  before 
in  my  life — and  oh,  the  joy  of  having  cut-steel 
buckles  and  a  perfectly  beautiful  raincoat — and 
my  first  set  of  furs — and  perfumery  and  every- 
thing." 

The  advertising  columns  were  not,  she  found 
(and  attributed  it  to  the  return  of  so  many  men 
from  France),  very  fecund.  Each  newspaper  of- 
fered only  from  two  to  six  chances  worth  con- 
sidering. One,  which  appeared  in  all  of  them, 
seemed  to  afford  the  best  opening.  It  read: 

"Wanted:  A  stenographer,  lady-like  appear- 
ance and  address,  with  some  executive  experience. 
Steady  job  and  quick  advancement  to  right 
woman.  Apply  between  9  and  n,  room  1009, 
Carman  Building." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  123 

"  I  am  requested  to  apply  for  this  spectacular 
Job  at  the  office  itself,  Glorious  Lutie,"  she  con- 
fided on  her  return  to  her  room,  "  and  I'm  going 
out  immediately  after  it.  It's  a  romantic  thing, 
getting  a  job  through  an  advertisement.  I  hope 
I  float  up  to  the  forty-sixth  floor  of  a  skyscraper, 
sail  into  a  suite  of  offices  which  fill  the  entire  top 
story;  all  Turkish  rugs  on  the  highly  polished 
floor;  all  expensive  paintings  on  the  delicately 
tinted  walls;  all  cut  flowers-with-yard-long-stems 
in  the  finely  cut  crystal  vases.  I  should  like  to  find 
there  a  new  employer ;  tall,  young,  handsome,  and 
dark.  Dark  he  must  be,  Glorious  Lutie.  I  can- 
not marry  a  blond;  our  children  would  be  albinos. 
He  would  address  me  thus :  '  Most  Beauteous 
Blonde — you  arrive  at  a  moment  when  we  are  so 
much  in  need  of  a  secretary  that  if  you  don't  im- 
mediately seat  yourself  at  yon  machine,  we  shall 
go  out  of  business.  Your  salary  is  one  hundred 
dollars  a  week.  This  exquisite  rose-lined  boudoir 
is  for  your  private  use.  You  will  find  a  bunch  of 
fresh  violets  on  your  desk  every  morning.  May 
I  offer  you  my  Rolls-Royce  to  bring  you  back  and 
forth  to  work?  And,'  having  fallen  in  love 


i24  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

with  me  instantly,  *  how  soon  may  I  ask  you  to 

marry  me  ? ' 

Susannah  took  the  Subway  to  Wall  Street; 
walked  through  that  busy  city-canon  to  the  Car- 
man Building.  She  strode  into  the  elevator, 
almost  empty  in  the  hour  which  followed  the 
morning  rush;  started  to  emerge,  as  directed  by 
the  elevator-man,  at  the  tenth  floor.  But  she  did 
not  emerge.  Instead,  her  face  as  white  as  paper, 
she  leaped  back  into  the  elevator;  ascended  with 
it  to  the  top  floor;  descended  with  it;  hurriedly 
left  the  building. 

That  first  casual  glance  down  the  corridor  had 
given  her  a  glimpse  of  H.  Withington  Warner 
sauntering  slowly  away  from  the  elevator. 

"  Say,  Eloise,"  she  said  late  that  afternoon 
over  the  telephone  to  the  friend  she  had  made  at 
the  Dorothy  Dorr  Home.  "  When  can  I  see  you  ? 
.  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Well,  you  see 
I'm  out  of  a  job  at  present.  .  .  .  No,  I  can't 
tell  you  about  it.  This  is  a  rooming-house. 
There  is  no  telephone  in  my  room.  I  am  tele- 
phoning from  the  hall.  And  so  I'd  rather  wait 
until  I  see  you.  But  in  brief,  I'm  eating  at  Child's, 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  125 

soda-fountains  and  even  peanut  stands.  I'm  really 
getting  back  my  girlish  figure.  Only  I  think  I'm 
going  to  be  a  regular  O.  Henry  story.  Headlines 
as  follows:  Beautiful  Titian-haired  (mark  that 
Titian-haired,  Eloise)  Blonde  Dead  of  Starva- 
tion. Drops  Dead  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Too  Proud 
to  Beg.  I  hope  that  none  of  those  wicked  re- 
porters will  guess  that  my  new  shoes  with  the 
cut-steel  buckles  cost  thirty-five  dollars.  All 
right !  All  right.  .  .  .  The  4  Attic '  at  seven. 
I'll  be  there  promptly  as  usual  and  you'll  get 
there  late  as  usual.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  you  will! 
Thanks  awfully,  Eloise.  I  feel  just  like  going 
out  to  dinner." 

Eloise,  living  up  to  her  promise,  made  so  noble 
an  effort  that  she  was  only  ten  minutes  late. 
Then,  as  usual,  she  came  dashing  and  sparkling 
into  the  room;  a  slim  brown  girl,  much  browner 
than  usual,  for  her  coat  of  seashore  tan;  with  nar- 
row topaz  eyes  and  deep  dimples;  very  smart  in 
embroidered  linen  and  summer  furs.  The  Attic 
restaurant  occupied  the  whole  top  floor  of  a  very 
high,  downtown  West  Side  skyscraper.  Its  main 
business  came  at  luncheon,  so  the  girls  sat  almost 


126  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

alone  in  its  long,  cool  quiet.  They  found  a  table 
in  a  little  stall  whose  window  overhung  the  gray, 
fog-swathed  river  which  seamlessly  joined  gray 
fog-misted  sky.  A  moon,  opaque  as  a  scarlet 
wafer,  seemed  to  be  pasted  at  a  spot  that  could  be 
either  river  or  sky.  The  girls  ordered  their  in- 
consequent dinner.  They  talked  their  inconse- 
quent girl  chatter.  They  drank  each  a  glass  of 
May  wine. 

Susannah  had  quite  recovered  her  poise  and 
her  spirit.  She  described  her  new  room  with 
great  detail.  She  suggested  that  Eloise,  whom 
she  invariably  adressed  as,  "  you  pampered  min- 
ion of  millions,  you !  "  should  call  on  her  in  that 
scrubby  hall  bedroom.  In  fact,  her  narrative 
went  from  joke  to  joke  in  a  vein  so  steadily  and 
so  augmentingly  gay  that,  when  Eloise  had  paid 
the  bill  and  they  sat  dawdling  over  their  coffee, 
suddenly  she  found  herself  on  the  verge  of  break- 
ing her  vow  of  secrecy,  of  relating  the  horrors 
of  the  last  week. 

"  Eloise,"  she  began,  "  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
something  that  I  don't  want  you  ever  to — " 

And  then  the  words  dried  on  her  lips.     Her 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  127 

tongue  seemed  to  turn  to  wood.  She  paled.  She 
froze.  Her  eyes  set  on — 

O'Hearn  was  walking  into  the  Attic. 

He  did  not  perceive  that  instant  terror  of  petri- 
fication;  for  it  happened  he  did  not  even  glance  in 
their  direction.  He  walked,  self-absorbed  ap- 
parently, to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  But  his 
face — Susannah  got  it  clearly — was  stony  too.  It 
had  the  look  somehow  of  a  man  about  to  perform 
a  deed  repugnant  to  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sue?"  Eloise  asked  in 
alarm.  "  You  look  awfully  ill  all  of  a  sud- 
den." 

"  The  -fact  is,"  Susannah  answered  with  instant 
composure,  "  I  feel  a  little  faint,  Eloise.  Do  you 
mind  if  we  go  now?  I  really  should  like  to  have 
a  little  air." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Eloise  answered.  "  Any  time 
you  say.  Come  on !  " 

They  made  rapidly  for  the  elevator.  Susannah 
did  not  glance  back.  But  inwardly  she  thanked 
her  guardian-angel  for  the  fortuitous  miracle  by 
which  intervening  waiters  formed  a  screen.  Not 
until  they  had  walked  block  after  block,  turning 


128  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

and  twisting  at  her  own  suggestion,  did  Susannah 
feel  safe. 

"  Oh,  what  was  it  you  were  going  to  tell  me, 
Susannah,"  Eloise  interrupted  suddenly,  "  just  be- 
fore we  left  the  Attic?" 

"  I  don't  seem  to  remember  at  this  moment," 
Susannah  evaded.  "  Perhaps  it  will  come  to  me 
later." 

Susannah  did  not  sleep  very  well  that  night. 
But  by  morning  she  had  recovered  her  poise. 
"  Glorious  Lutie,"  she  said  wordlessly  from  her 
bed,  "  I  think  I'll  go  seriously  to  the  business  of 
getting  a  job.  It'll  take  my  mind  off — things. 
I'm  going  to  ignore  that  little  rencontre  of  yester- 
day. Don't  you  despair.  The  handsome  young 
employer  with  his  romantic  eyes  and  movie-star 
eyelashes  awaits  me  somewhere.  And  just  as 
soon  as  we're  married,  you  shall  be  hung  in  a 
manner  befitting  your  birth  and  station  in  a  draw- 
ing-room as  big  as  Central  Park.  I  wish  it 
weren't  so  darn  hot.  Somehow  too,  I  don't  feel 
so  strong  about  answering  ads  in  person  as  I  did 
two  days  ago." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  129 

On  her  way  to  breakfast  she  bought  all  the 
newspapers.  She  spent  her  morning  answering 
advertisements  by  letter.  She  received  no  replies 
to  this  first  batch;  but  she  pursued  the  same  course 
for  three  days. 

"  Glorious  Lutie,"  she  addressed  the  minia- 
ture a  few  days  later,  "  this  is  beginning  to  get 
serious.  I  am  now  almost  within  sight  of  the 
end  bill  in  my  wad.  In  point  of  fact  I  will  not 
conceal  from  you  that  today  I  pawned  my  one 
and  only  jewel — my  jade  ring.  You  don't  know 
how  naked  I  feel  without  it.  It  will  keep  us  for 
— perhaps  it  will  last  three  weeks.  And  after 
that —  However,  I  don't  think  we'll  either  of 
us  starve.  You  don't  take  any  sustenance  and  I 
take  very  little  these  days.  I  wish  this  weather 
would  change.  You  are  so  cool  living  in  that  blue 
cloud,  Glorious  Lutie,  that  you  don't  appreciate 
what  it's  like  when  it's  ninety  in  the  shade  and  still 
going  up.  I'm  getting  pretty  sick  of  it.  I  guess," 
she  concluded,  smiling,  "  I'll  make  out  a  list  of  the 
friends  I  can  appeal  to  in  case  of  need." 

The  idea  seemed  to  raise  her  spirits.  She  sat 
down  and  turned  to  the  unused  memorandum  por- 


130  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

tion  of  her  diary.  Her  list  ran  something  like 
this: 

New  York — • 

No.  i — First  and  foremost — Eloise,  who,  be- 
ing an  heiress  and  the  owner  of  a  check-book, 
never  has  any  real  cash  and  always  borrows 
from  me. 

Providence — 

No.  2 — Barty  Joyce — Always  has  money  be- 
cause he's  prudent — and  the  salt  of  the  earth — 

P.S.  Eloise  never  pays  the  money  back  that  she 
borrows  from  me — 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  Glorious  Lutie,  why  I  don't 
fall  in  love  with  Barty  and  why  he  doesn't  fall  in 
love  with  me?  There's  something  awfully  out 
about  me.  I  don't  think  I've  been  in  love  more 
than  six  times;  and  the  only  serious  one  was  the 
policeman  on  the  beat  who  had  a  wife  and  five 
children." 

Providence  again — 

No.  3 — The  Coburns — nice,  comfy,  middle- 
aged  folks;  not  rich;  the  best  friends  a  girl  could 
possibly  have. 

No.  4— 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  131 

But  here  she  yawned  loudly  and  relinquished 
the  whole  proceeding. 

That  afternoon  Susannah  visited  several  em- 
ployment agencies  which  dealt  with  office  help. 
She  answered  all  the  inquiries  that  their  question- 
naires put  to  her;  omitting  any  reference  to  the 
Carbonado  Mining  Company.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  she  finished.  She  walked  slowly 
homeward  down  the  Avenue.  Outside  of  her 
own  door,  she  tried  to  decide  whether  she  would 
go  immediately  to  dinner  or  lie  down  first.  A 
sudden  fatigue  forced  decision  in  favor  of  a 
nap.  She  walked  wearily  up  the  first  flight  of 
stairs.  Ahead,  someone  was  ascending  the  sec- 
ond flight — a  man.  He  turned  down  the  hall. 
She  followed.  He  stopped  at  the  room  opposite 
hers;  fumbled  unsuccessfully  with  the  key.  As 
she  approached,  she  glanced  casually  in  his 
direction. 

It  was  Byan. 


DEAR  SPINK: 

This  is  the  kind  of  letter  one  never  writes.  But 
if  you  knew  my  mental  chaos.  .  .  .  And  I've 
got  to  tell  somebody  about  the  thing  that  I  can 
speak  about  to  nobody.  If  I  don't.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  suppose  I've  done?  I've  bought  a  house. 
Yep —  I'm  a  property  owner  now.  Of  course 
you  guess!  Or  do  you  guess?  It's  the  Murray 
place.  I  could  just  make  it  and  have  enough  left 
over  for  a  year  or  two  or  three.  But  after  that, 
Spink,  I'm  going  to  work  because  I'll  have  to. 

I  suppose  you're  wondering  why  I  did  it. 
You're  not  puzzled  half  as  much  as  I  am;  al- 
though in  one  way  I  know  exactly  why  I  did  it. 
Perhaps  I  didn't  do  it  at  all.  Anyway,  I  didn't 
do  it  of  my  own  volition.  Somebody  made  me. 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  that  presently. 

Yes,  it's  all  mine:  beautiful  old  square-roomed 
house  with  its  carved  panelings  and  its  generous 
Colonial  fireplaces;  its  slender  doors  and  amusing 

132 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  133 

door-latches;  an  upstairs  of  ample  bedrooms;  an 
old  garret  with  slave  quarters;  the  downstairs 
with  that  little,  charmingly  incongruous,  galleried, 
mid- Victorian  addition;  barn;  lawn;  flower- 
garden.  And  how  beautiful  I'm  making  that 
flower-garden  you'll  never  suspect  till  you  see  it. 
But  you  won't  see  it  for  quite  a  while — I  with- 
draw all  my  invitations  to  visit  me.  I  don't  want 
you  now,  Spink;  although  I  never  wanted  you  so 
much  in  my  life.  I'll  want  you  later,  I  think.  Of 
course  it  isn't  from  you  personally — you  beetle- 
eyed  old  scout — that  I'm  withdrawing  my  invita- 
tion; it's  from  any  flesh-and-blood  being.  If  you 
had  an  astral  self —  I  don't  want  anybody.  I 
never  wanted  to  be  alone  so  much  in  my  life.  In 
a  moment  I'm  going  to  tell  you  why. 

And  the  wine-glass  elms  are  mine ;  and  the  lilacs 
and  syringas  and  the  smoke-bush  and  the  holly- 
hocks; and  all  the  things  I've  planted;  my  Canter- 
bury bells  (if  they  come  up)  ;  my  deep,  rich 
dahlias  and  my  flame-colored  phlox  (if  ditto). 
All  mine !  Gee,  Spink,  I  never  felt  so  rich  in  my 
life,  because  what  I've  enumerated  isn't  twenty; 
five  per  cent  of  what  I  own.  In  a  minute  I'm 


i34  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

going  to  tell  you  what  the  remaining  seventy-five 
per  cent  is. 

This  place  is  full  of  birds  and  bees.  I  watch 
them  from  the  house.  Spink,  we  flying-men  are 
boobs.  Have  you  ever  watched  a  bee  fly?  I 
spend  hours,  it  seems  to  me,  just  studying  them — 
trying  to  crab  their  act.  And  the  other  day  there 
was  an  air-fight  just  over  my  roof.  A  chicken- 
hawk  attacked  by  the  whole  bird  population.  It 
was  a  reproduction  in  miniature  of  a  bombing- 
machine  pursued  by  a  dozen  combat-planes. 
Spink,  it  was  the  best  flying  I've  ever  seen.  You 
should  have  seen  the  sparrows  keeping  on  his  tail ! 
The  little  birds  relied  on  their  quickness  of  attack, 
just  as  combat  planes  do.  They  attacked  from  all 
angles  with  such  rapidity  that  the  hawk  could  do 
nothing  but  run  for  his  life.  The  little  birds 
circled  about,  waiting  for  the  moment  to  dive.  A 
combat-plane  dives;  its  machines  go  ta-ta-ta-ta- 
ta-ta  and  it  turns  off  before  the  gunner  can  swing 
his  guns  over.  The  birds  dived,  picked  furiously 
at  his  eyes  while  the  hawk  turned  bewildered  from 
one  attack  to  another.  But  the  little  birds  did 
something  that  planes  can't  even  attempt — they 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  135 

hovered  over  him  almost  motionless,  waiting  their 
moment  to  attack.  Here  I  am  talking  of  flying! 
Flying!  Did  I  ever  fly?  When  I  got  to  New 
York,  Greenwich  Village  seemed  strange  and  un- 
natural, just  a  pasteboard  dream.  Pau — Avord 
— Verdun — were  the  only  real  things  in  my  life. 
Now  they're  shadows  like  Greenwich  Village. 
Quinanog — the  Murray  place — and  Lutetia — 
seem  the  only  real  things. 

I'm  going  to  tell  you  all  about  it  in  a  moment. 
I  sure  am.  The  world  seems  to  be  full  of  land- 
ing-places, but  for  some  reason  I  can't  land. 
Every  time,  I  seem  to  come  short  on  the  field; 
or  overshoot  it.  Perhaps  it's  because  I  feel  it 
ought  not  to  be  told —  Perhaps  it's  because  I  feel 
you  won't  believe  me — 

But  I've  got  to  do  it.    So  here  goes ! 

Spink,  the  remaining  seventy-five  per  cent  that 
I  own  in  this  place  is —  This  place  is  haunted. 
Not  by  a  ghost,  but  by  ghosts!  There  are  not 
one  of  them,  but  four.  Three  I  see  occasionally. 
But  one  of  the  quartet — I  see  her  all  the  time. 
She  is  Lutetia. 

It  began —     Well,  it  all  goes  back  to  your 


136  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

rooms  in  New  York.  They're  haunted  too,  but 
you  don't  know  it,  you  wall-eyed  old  grave-digger, 
you.  Not  because  you're  inept  or  unsensitive  or 
anything  stupid —  It's  because  there's  something 
they  want  to  say  to  me — a  message  they  want  to 
give  to  me  alone.  But  I  can't  stop  to  go  into  that 
now.  To  return  to  your  apartment,  something 
.  .  .  used  to  come  ...  to  my  bed  at  night 
.  .  .  and  bend  over  me  .  .  .1  don't  know 
who  it  was  or  what  it  was,  except  that  it  was 
masculine.  And  how  I  knew  that,  I  dunno. 

It  bothered  me.  One  reason  why  I  came  down 
here  was  that  I  thought  I  was  going  crazy.  Per- 
haps I  have  gone  crazy.  Anyway,  if  I  have  I 
like  it.  But  here  I  am  again!  It's  as  though 
the  world  slipped  out  from  under  me.  I  can  fly 
on  and  on  or  climb,  but  it's  the  coming  down  that 
baffles  me.  When  I  cut  the  motor  off  and  the 
noise  dies  away,  I  feel  sick  and  afraid;  the  bus 
seems  to  take  its  own  head.  Now  for  a  landing 
— even  if  I  do  smash. 

From  the  moment  I  entered  this  house,  I  felt 
as  though  there  were  others  here.  Not  specifi- 
cally, you  understand.  At  first,  it  was  only  a  sen- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  137 

sation  of  warmth  in  the  atmosphere  that  grew  to 
a  feeling  of  friendliness  that  deepened  to  a  sense 
of  companionship  until —  Well,  I  found  myself 
in  a  mood  of  eternal  expectancy.  Something  was 
going  to  happen  but  I  didn't  know  what  or  how 
or  when.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  in  a  way  1  knew  what.  1 
was  going  to  see  something.  Some  time — I  felt 
dimly — when  I  should  enter  one  of  these  rooms, 
so  stark  and  yet  so  occupied,  somebody  would  be 
there  to  greet  me  .  .  .or  some  day  turning  a 
corner  I  should  come  suddenly  on  .  .  .1  did  not 
dread  that  experience,  Spink,  I  give  you  my  word. 
I  reveled  in  the  expectancy  of  it.  It  was  beauti- 
ful; it  was  rich.  I  wasn't  anything  of  what  you 
call  afraid.  I  wanted  it  to  happen. 

And  it  did  happen. 

One  evening,  as  usual,  I  was  reading  Lutetia. 
I  was  sitting  in  my  big  chair  beside  the  refectory 
table.  Outside,  it  was  a  perfect  night  I  remem- 
ber; dark  and  still,  and  the  stars  so  big  that  they 
seemed  to  spill  out  of  the  heavens.  Inside,  the 
lamp  was  bright.  My  eyes  were  on  my  book. 
Suddenly.  ...  I  was  not  alone.  Don't  ask  me 
how  I  knew  it.  Only  take  it  from  me  that  1  did. 


138  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

I  knew  it  all  right.  For — oh,  Spink — (I've  under- 
lined that  just  like  a  girl)  all  in  a  flash  I  didn't 
want — to  look  up.  I  wanted  to  go  away  from 
this  place  and  to  go  with  considerable  speed,  not 
glancing  back.  It  was  the  worst  sensation  that  I 
have  ever  known — worse  even  than  a  night  raid. 
After  a  while  something  came  back;  courage  I 
suppose  you'd  call  it;  a  kind  of  calm,  a  poise. 
Anyway,  I  found  that  I  was  going  to  be  able  to 
look  up  presently  and  not  mind  it  ... 

Of  course  I  knew  whom  I  was  going  to 
see  ... 

I  did  look  up.  And  I  did  see —  It  was 
Lutetia.  Spink,  if  you  try  to  say  those  things  that 
people  always  say — that  it  was  imagination,  that 
I  was  overwrought,  that  my  mind,  moving  all 
the  day  among  the  facts  and  realities  of  Lutetia's 
life,  suddenly  projected  a  picture — I'll  never 
speak  to  you  again.  There  she  sat,  her  elbow 
resting  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  her  chin  in 
her  hand,  looking  at  me.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  long  she  stayed.  But  all  the  time  she  was 
there  she  looked  at  me.  And  all  that  time  I 
looked  at  her.  I  don't  think,  Spink,  I  have  ever 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  139 

guessed  how  much  eyes  can  say.  Her  eyes  said 
so  much  that  I  think  I  could  write  the  whole  rest 
of  the  night  about  them.  Except  that  I'm  not 
quite  sure  what  they  said.  It  was  all  entreaty; 
oh,  blazing,  blasting,  blinding  entreaty.  .  .  .Of 
that  I  am  sure.  But  what  she  asked  of  me  I 
haven't  the  remotest  idea.  After  a  while  .  .  . 
something  impelled  me  to  look  down  at  my  book 
again.  When  I  lifted  my  eyes  Lutetia  was  gone. 
That  wasn't  all,  Spink;  for  that  night,  or  the 
next  day —  But  I'm  going  to  try  to  keep  to  a 
consecutive  story.  I  didn't  go  to  bed  immediately. 
I  didn't  feel  like  sleeping.  You  can  understand  it 
was  considerable  of  a  shock.  And  very  thrilling. 
Literally  thrilling!  I  shook.  It  didn't  bother  me 
an  atom  after  it  was  over.  I  wasn't  the  least 
afraid.  But  I  vibrated  for  hours.  I  walked  four 
or  five  miles — where,  I  don't  know.  I  must  have 
passed  the  Fallows  place,  because  I  recall  the 
scent  of  honeysuckle.  But  I  assure  you  I  seemed 
to  be  walking  through  the  stars.  .  .  .  She  is 
beautiful.  I  can't  tell  you  how  beautiful  because 
I  have  no  colors  to  give  you;  no  flesh  to  go  by. 
Perhaps  she  is  not  beautiful,  but  lovely.  What 


i4o  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

queer  things  words  are!  I  have  called  females 
pretty  and  stunning  and  even  fascinating  and  beau- 
tiful. I  think  I  never  called  any  woman  lovely 
before.  I've  been  that  young.  But  I'm  not  as 
young  as  I  was  yesterday.  I'm  a  century,  an  age, 
an  seon  older.  I  was  obsessed  though.  If  you 
believe  it,  when  I  went  to  bed,  I  had  only  one  idea 
in  my  mind — a  hope  that  she  would  come  back 
soon. 

She  didn't  come  back  soon — at  least  not  that 
night.  But  somebody  else  did  .  .  . 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  suddenly  found 
myself,  wide-eyed  and  clear-minded,  sitting  up- 
right in  bed  and  listening  to  something.  I  don't 
know  what  I  had  heard,  but  I  remember  with 
perfect  clearness — Spink,  you  tell  me  this  is  a 
dream  and  I'll  murder  you — what  I  immediately 
did  and  what  I  subsequently  saw.  I  got  up  quite 
calmly  and  lighted  a  candle.  Then  I  opened  the 
door. 

Do  you  remember  my  writing  you  that  the 
chamber,  just  back  of  the  one  I  occupy,  must  have 
been  the  room  of  a  child — Lutetia's  little  niece? 
The  door  of  that  room,  of  course,  leads  into 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  141 

the  hall  as  mine  does.  As  I  stood  there,  shading 
my  candle  from  the  draft,  that  door  opened  and 
there  emerged  from  the  room — what  do  you  sup- 
pose? 

A  little  girl. 

I  say — a  little  girl.  She  wasn't,  you  under- 
stand, a  real  little  girl.  Nor  was  she  a  dead 
little  girl.  Instantly  I  knew  that — just  as  instantly 
as  I  had  known  that  Lutetia  was  dead.  I  mean, 
and  I  hope  this  phraseology  is  technically  correct, 
that  Lutetia,  as  I  saw  her,  was  the  ghost  of  some- 
one who  had  once  lived.  This  little  girl  was  an 
apparition;  an  appearance  projected  through 
space  of  some  one  who  now  lives.  That  or — 
oh,  how  difficult  this  is,  Spink— a  sloughed-off, 
astral  self  left  in  this  old  place;  or — but  I  won't 
go  into  that. 

I  stood  there,  as  I  said,  shading  my  candle. 
The  little  girl  closed  her  door  with  a  meticulous 
care.  Did  I  hear  the  ghost  of  a  click?  Perhaps 
my  ear  supplied  that.  By  one  hand  she  was  drag- 
ging a  big  doll — one  of  those  rag-dolls  children 
have.  I  couldn't  tell  you  anything  about  Lutetia 
— except  that  she  was  lovely — ineffably  lovely. 


142  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

But  I  can  tell  you  all  about  this  little  girl.  She 
was  pigtailed  and  freckled.  The  pigtails  were 
short,  very  thick,  so  tight  that  their  ends  snapped 
upwards,  like  hundreds  of  little-girl  pigtails  that  I 
have  seen.  There  was  a  row  of  tangled  little  ring- 
lets on  her  forehead.  She  didn't  look  at  me.  She 
didn't  know  that  I  was  there.  She  proceeded 
straight  across  the  hall,  busily  stub-toeing  her  way 
like  any  freckled,  pigtailed  little  girl,  the  doll 
dragging  on  the  floor  behind  her,  until  she  reached 
the  garret  stairs.  She  opened  the  garret  door, 
closed  it  with  the  same  meticulous  care.  The  last 
I  got  was  a  little  white  glimpse  of  her  down- 
dropped  face,  as  she  pulled  the  rag-doll's  leg  away 
from  the  shutting  door. 

I  waited  there  a  long  time — until  my  candle 
guttered  to  nothing.  She  did  not  return.  I  did 
not  see  her  or  anybody  else  again  that  night. 

I  went  back  to  bed  and  fell  immediately  into 
a  perfectly  quiet,  dreamless  sleep.  The  next 
morning  early,  I  went  over  to  Hyde's  brother — 
his  name  is  Corning — and  bought  this  house. 
Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  why  I  did  it.  I  don't 
exactly  know  myself;  for  of  course  I  couldn't  af- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  143 

ford  it.  I  realized  only  that  I  could  not — I 
simply  and  absolutely  could  not — let  anybody  else 
buy  Lutetia. 

You  think,  of  course,  that  I've  finished  now, 
Spink.  But  that  isn't  all.  Not  by  a  million  Per- 
sian parasangs — all.  She  has  come  again.  I 
mean  Lutetia.  For  that  matter,  they  both  have 
come  again.  But  I'll  try  to  tell  my  story  cate- 
gorically. 

It  was  a  night  or  two  later;  another  dewy, 
placid  large-starred  night —  Strange  how  this 
beautiful  weather  keeps  up !  I  had  been  reading 
as  usual;  but  my  mind  was  as  vacant  as  a  glass 
bell  from  which  you  have  exhausted  the  air.  I 
was  rereading,  I  remember,  Lutetia's  The  Sport 
of  the  Goddesses.  Spink,  how  that  woman  could 
write !  And  .  .  .  Again  I  became  aware  that: 
I  wasn't  alone.  Just  as  definitely,  I  knew  that  it- 
was  not  Lutetia  this  time ;  nor  even  Little  Pigtails. 
This  time,  and  perhaps  it's  because  I'm  getting 
used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  I  had  a  sense  of — not 
fear — but  only  of  what  I'll  call  a  spiritual  diffi- 
dence. 

Yet  instantly  I  looked  up. 


i44  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

He — it  was  a  he  this  time — was  standing  in  the 
doorway,  which  leads  from  this  big  living-room 
into  the  front  hall.  We  were  vis-a-vis — tete-a- 
tete  one  might  say.  He  was  looking  straight  at 
me  and  I — I  assure  you,  Spink — I  looked  straight 
at  him. 

Spink,  you  have  never  heard  of  a  jovial  ghost, 
have  you?  I'm  sure  I  haven't.  But  this  was  or 
could  have  been  a  jovial  ghost.  He  was  big — 
not  fat  but  ample — middle-aged,  more  than 
middle-aged.  He  wore  an  enormous  beard  cut 
square  like  the  men  in  Assyrian  mural  tablets. 
Hair  a  little  long.  I  assure  you  he  was  the  hand- 
somest old  beggar  that  I  have  ever  seen.  He 
looked  like  a  portrait  by  Titian.  I  got — it's  like 
holding  a  photographic  negative  up  to  the  light 
and  trying  to  get  the  figures  on  it — that  he  wore 
a  sort  of  flowing  gown ;  it  made  him  stately.  And 
one  of  those  little  round  caps  that  conceal  or 
protect  baldness.  I  can't  describe  him.  How  the 
devil  can  you  describe  a  ghost?  I  mean  an  appari- 
tion. For  he  isn't  dead  either — any  more  than 
the  little  girls  is.  He's  alive  somewhere. 

Well,  our  steady  exchange  of  looks  went  on 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  145 

and  on  and  on.  If  I  could  have  said  anything 
it  would  have  been:  "  What  do  you  want  of  me, 
you  handsome  old  beggar?"  What  he  would 
have  said  to  me  I  don't  know;  although  he  was 
trying  with  all  his  ghostly  strength  to  put  some 
message  over.  How  he  was  trying!  It  was  that 
effort  that  kept  him  from  being  what  he  was — is 
— jovial.  God,  how  that  gaze  burned — tore- 
ate.  It  grew  insupportable  after  a  while — it  was 
melting  me  to  nothingness.  I  dropped  my  eyes. 
Suddenly  I  could  lift  them,  for  I  knew  he  was 
gone.  Somehow  I  had  the  feeling  that  a  mon- 
strous bomb  had  noiselessly  exploded  in  the  room. 
His  going  troubled  me  no  more  than  his  coming. 
I  remember  I  said  aloud:  "  I'm  sorry  I  couldn't 
get  you,  old  top !  Better  luck  next  time  !  " 

I  got  up  from  my  chair  after  a  few  minutes  to 
take  my  usual  be  fore-going-to-bed  walk.  I  walked 
about  the  room ;  absent-mindedly  putting  things  to 
rights — the  way  women  do.  My  mind — and  I 
suspect  my  eyes  too — were  still  so  full  of  him  that 
when,  on  stepping  outside,  I  came  across  another 
— I  was  conscious  of  some  shock.  Again  not  of 
fear,  but  of  a  terrific  surprise. 


i46  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Are  you  getting  all  this,  Spink?  Oh,  of  course 
you're  not,  because  you  don't  believe'  it.  But  try 
to  believe  it.  Put  yourself  in  my  place !  Try  to 
get  the  wonder,  the  magic,  the  terror,  the  touch 
now  and  then  of  horror,  but  above  all  the  fierce 
thrill — of  living  with  a  family  of  ghosts? 

This  one — the  fourth — was  a  man  too.  About 
thirty,  I  should  say.  And  awfully  charming. 
Yes,  you  spaniel-eyed  fish,  you,  one  man  is 
saying  this  of  another  man.  He  was  awfully 
charming.  Short,  dark.  He  wore — again  it  is 
like  holding  a  negative  up  to  the  light — he  wore 
white  ducks  or  flannels.  He  stood  very  easily,  his 
weight — listen  to  me,  his  weight — mainly  on  one 
foot  and  one  hand  curved  against  his  hip.  In  the 
other  hand,  he  carried  his  pipe.  He  looked  at 
me — God,  how  he  looked  at  me !  How,  for  that 
matter,  they  all  look  at  me !  They  want  some- 
thing, Spink.  Of  me.  They're  trying  to  tell  me. 
I  can't  get  it,  though.  But,  believe  me,  I'm 
trying.  This  was  worse  than  the  old  fellow.  For 
this  one,  like  Lutetia,  was  dead.  And  he,  like  her, 
was  trying  to  put  his  message  across  a  world, 
whereas  the  old  fellow  had  only  to  pierce  a  di- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  147 

mension.  How  he  looked  at  me ;  held  me ;  bored 
into  me.  It  was  like  sustaining  visual  vitriol. 
.  .  .  How  he  looked  at  me!  It  became  hor- 
rible. .  .  .  Pretty  soon  I  realized  1  wasn't  go- 
ing to  be  able  to  stand  it.  ... 

Yet  I  stayed  with  it  as  long  as  he  did,  and  of 
course  we  continued  to  glare  at  each  other.  I 
don't  exactly  know  what  the  etiquette  of  these 
meetings  is;  but  I  seem  to  feel  vaguely  that  it's 
up  to  me  to  stay  with  them  as  long  as  they're 
here.  This  time,  it  must  have  been  all  of  five 
minutes,  although  it  seemed  longer  .  .  .  much 
longer  .  .  .  and  I,  all  the  time,  trying  to  hold 
on.  Then  suddenly  something  happened.  I  don't 
know  what  it  was,  but  one  instant  he  was  there, 
and  another  he  wasn't.  Don't  ask  me  how  he 
went  away.  I  don't  know.  He  simply  ceased  to 
be;  and  yet  so  swifter-than-instantly,  so  exqui- 
sitely, so  subtly  that  my  only  question  was — even 
though  my  mind  was  still  stinging  from  his  gaze 
— had  he  been  there  at  all.  It  was  as  though  the 
tree  back  of  him  had  instantaneously  absorbed 
him.  It  was  a  shock  too — that  disappearance. 

Well,  again  I  went  out  for  a  hike.     I  walked 


i48  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

anywhere — everywhere.  How  far  I  don't  know. 
But  half  the  night.  Again  it  was  as  though  I 
marched  through  the  stars.  .  .  . 

I  haven't  seen  the  old  painter  again — I  call  him 
painter  simply  because  he  wore  that  long  robe. 
And  I  haven't  seen  the  young  guy  again.  But  I 
see  Lutetia  all  the  time.  She  comes  and  goes. 
Sometimes  when  I  enter  the  living-room,  I  find 
her  already  there.  .  .  .  Sometimes  when  I  leave 
it,  I  know  she  enters  by  another  door.  .  .  .  We 
spend  long  evenings  together  ...  I  can't  write 
when  she's  about;  but  curiously  enough  I  can 
sometimes  read;  that  is  to  say,  I  can  read  Lutetia. 
I  try  to  read  because  moments  come  when  I  realize 
that  she  prefers  me  not  to  look  at  her.  It's  when 
she's  exhausted  from  trying  to  give  me  her  mes- 
sage. Or  when  she's  girding  herself  up  for  an- 
other go.  At  those  moments,  the  room  is  full  of 
a  frightful  struggle;  a  gigantic  spiritual  concen- 
tration. It  seems  to  me  I  could  not  look  even  if 
she  wanted  me.  Oh,  how  she  tries,  Spink!  It 
wrings  my  heart.  She's  so  helpless,  so  hopeless — 
so  gentle,  so  tender,  so  lovely!  It's  all  my  own 
stupidity.  The  iron-wall  stupidity  of  flesh  and 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  149 

blood.  Perhaps,  if  I  were  to  kill  myself — and  I 
think  I  could  do  that  for  her.  .  .  .  Only  she 
doesn't  want  me  to  do  that.  .  .  .  But  what  does 
she  want  me  to  do?  If  I  could  only  .  .  . 

Lindsay  had  written  steadily  the  whole  eve- 
ning; written  at  a  violent  speed  and  with  a  fierce 
intensity.  Now  his  speed  died  down.  His  hands 
dropped  from  the  typewriter.  That  mental  in- 
tensity evaporated.  He  became  aware  .  .  ., 

He  was  not  alone. 

The  long  living-room  was  doubly  cheerful  that 
night.  The  inevitable  tracks  of  living  had  begun 
to  humanize  it.  A  big  old  bean-pot  full  of  purple 
iris  sat  on  one  end  of  the  refectory  table.  Lind- 
say's books  and  notebooks;  his  paper  and  envel- 
opes; his  pens  and  pencils  sprawled  over  the 
length  of  table  between  him  and  the  iris.  That 
the  night  was  a  little  cool,  Lindsay  had  seized  as 
pretext  to  build  a  huge  fire.  The  high,  jagged 
flames  conspired  with  the  steady  glow  of  the  big 
lamp  to  rout  the  shadows  from  everywhere  but 
the  extreme  corners. 

No   more    than — after   her    coming — he   was 


150  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

alone  was  Lutetia  alone.  It  was,  Lindsay  re- 
flected, a  picture  almost  as  posed  as  for  a  camera. 
Lutetia  sat;  and  leaning  against  her,  close  to  her 
knee,  stood  a  pigtailed  little  girl.  She  might  have 
been  listening  to  a  story;  for  her  little  ear  was 
cocked  in  Lutetia's  direction.  That  attitude 
brought  to  Lindsay's  observation  a  delicious,  snub- 
nosed  child  profile.  She  gazed  unseeingly  over  her 
shoulder  to  a  far  corner.  And  Lutetia  gazed 
straight  over  the  child's  head  at  Lindsay — 

They  sat  for  a  long  time — a  long  long  time — 
thus.  The  little  girl's  vague  eyes  still  fixed  them- 
selves on  the  shadows  as  on  magic  realms  that 
were  being  constantly  unrolled  to  her.  Lutetia's 
eyes  still  sought  Lindsay's.  And  Lindsay's  eyes 
remained  on  Lutetia's;  held  there  by  the  agony 
of  her  effort  and  the  exquisite  torture  of  his  own 
bewilderment. 

After  a  while  he  arose.  With  slow,  precise 
movements,  he  gathered  up  the  pages  of  his  letter 
to  Spink.  He  arranged  them  carefully  according 
to  their  numbers — twelve  typewritten  pages.  He 
walked  leisurely  with  them  over  to  the  fireplace 
and  deposited  them  in  the  flames. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  151 

When  he  turned,  the  room  was  empty. 
The  next  day  brought  storm  again. 

The  coolness  of  the  night  vanished  finally  be- 
fore the  sparkling  sunshine  of  a  wind-swept  day. 
Lindsay  wrote  for  an  hour  or  two.  Then  he 
gave  himself  up  to  what  he  called  the  "  chores." 
He  washed  his  few  dishes.  He  toiled  on  the  lawn 
and  in  the  garden.  He  finished  the  work  of  re- 
pairing the  broken  stairway  in  the  barn.  At  the 
close  of  this  last  effort,  he  even  cast  a  longing 
look  in  the  direction  of  the  rubbish  collection  in 
the  second  story  of  the  barn.  But  his  digestion 
apprised  him  that  this  voyage  of  discovery  must 
be  put  off  until  after  luncheon.  He  emerged  from 
the  back  entrance  of  the  barn,  made  his  way, 
contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  by  a  circuitous  route 
to  the  front  of  the  house.  He  stopped  to  tack  up 
a  trail  of  rosebush  which  had  pulled  loose  from 
the  trellis  there.  He  felt  unaccountably  tired. 
When  he  entered  the  house  he  was  conscious  for 
the  first  time  of  a  kind  of  loneliness.  .  .  . 

He  had  not  seen  Lutetia,  nor  any  of  her  com- 
panions, for  three  days.  He  admitted  to  him- 


152  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

self  that  he  missed  the  tremendous  excitement 
of  the  last  fortnight.  But  particularly  he  missed 
Lutetia.  He  paused  absently  to  glance  into  the 
two  front  rooms,  still  as  empty  as  on  the  day  he 
had  first  seen  them.  He  wandered  upstairs  into 
his  bedroom.  From  there,  he  journeyed  to  the 
child's  room  beyond;  examined  again  the  dim 
drawings  on  the  wall.  It  occurred  to  him  that, 

by  going  over  them  with  crayons,  he  could  restore 

\ 

some  of  their  lost  vividness.  The  idea  brought 
a  little  spurt  of  exhilaration  to  his  jaded  spirit. 
He  returned  to  his  own  room,  just  for  the  sake 
of  descending  Lutetia's  little  private  stairway  to 
what  must  have  been  her  private  living-room  be- 
low. He  walked  absently  and  a  little  slowly; 
still  conscious  of  loneliness.  He  did  not  pause 
long  in  the  living-room,  although  he  made  a  ten- 
tative move  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen.  Still 
absently  and  quite  mechanically  he  opened  the 
back  door;  started  to  step  out  onto  the  broad  flat 
stone  which  made  the  step.  .  .  . 

Most  unexpectedly-— -and  shockingly,  he  was 
not  alone.  A  tiny  figure  .  .  .  black  ...  sat 
on  the  doorstep ;  sat  so  close  to  the  door  that,  as 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  153 

it  rose,  his  curdling  flesh  warned  him  he  had 
almost  touched  it.  A  curious  thing  happened. 
Lindsay  swayed,  pitched;  fell  backwards,  white 
and  moveless. 


"  How  did  they  find  me,  Glorious  Lutie?  "  Susan- 
nah asked  next  morning.  "  How  did  they  find 
me  ?  If  I  could  only  teach  myself  to  listen  to  the 
warning  of  those  little  hammers.  Something 
told  me  when  I  saw  Warner  walking  along  the 
corridor  of  the  Carman  Building  that  he  was  not 
there  by  accident.  Something  told  me  when  I 
ran  into  O'Hearn  at  the  Attic  the  other  night  that 
he  was  not  there  by  accident.  They  have  been 
following  me  all  the  time.  They've  known  what 
I've  been  doing  every  moment.  Just  as  Byan 
knows  where  I  am  now.  How  did  they  do  it? 
I've  never  suspected  it  for  a  moment.  I've  never 
seen  anybody.  I'm  frightened,  Glorious  Lutie; 
I'm  dreadfully  frightened.  I  don't  know  where 
to  turn.  If  I  only  had  a  real  friend —  But  per- 
haps that  wouldn't  help  as  much  as  I  think.  For 
I'm  afraid — I'm  too  afraid  to  tell  anybody — " 

All  this,  she  said  as  usual,  wordlessly.     But 
she  said  it  from  her  bed,  her  eyes  fixed  in  a  lack- 

154 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  155 

luster  stare  on  the  little  oval  gleam  of  the 
miniature. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  without  you,  Glori- 
ous Lutie,  to  tell  my  troubles  to.  You're  a  great 
deal  more  than  a  picture  to  me.  You're  a  real 
presence —  Oh,  if  you  could  only  see  for  me 
now.  I  wonder  if  Byan  is  still  in  his  room?  I 
wonder  what  he's  going  to  do.  I  mean — what  is 
the  next  move?  Oh,  of  course  he's  there!  He 
wants  to  talk  with  me.  But  I  won't  let  him  talk 
with  me.  I'll  stay  in  this  room  until  I  starve! 
And  he  can't  telephone.  How  can  he  put  over 
what  he  wants  to  say?  " 

That  question  answered  itself  automatically 
when  she  dragged  herself  up  from  bed.  A  white 
square  glimmered  beside  her  door.  She  pounced 
upon  it. 

"  DEAR  Miss  AYER: 

"  Of  course  we  have  known  where  you  were  and 
what  you  were  doing  every  instant  since  you  left 
the  office.  We  did  not  interfere  with  your  quit- 
ting your  boarding-house  because  we  preferred  to 
give  you  a  few  days  to  think  things  over.  I  hope 


156  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

you've  been  enjoying  your  little  excursions  to  the 
Museum  and  the  Aquarium.  We  knew  you'd 
come  to  your  senses  after  a  while  and  be  ready 
to  talk  business.  That  is  why  you've  had  those 
little,  accidental  meetings  from  time  to  time. 
That  advertisement  for  a  job  in  the  Carman 
Building  was  a  decoy  ad.  It  is  useless  for  you 
to  try  to  get  away  from  us. 

"  And  in  the  meantime  the  situation  is  getting 
more  and  more  desperate.  You  know  why.  Now 
listen.  We  can  clean  up  on  that  little  business 
deal  in  three  days.  Do  you  know  what  that 
means?  Maybe  a  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
We'll  let  you  in.  Your  share  would  be  twelve 
thousand  five  hundred.  Don't  that  sound  pretty 
good  to  you  ?  You  can  avoid  any  trouble  by  going 
away  with  us.  Or  you  can  go  alone  and  nobody 
will  bother  you.  We'll  give  you  the  dope  on  that ; 
for  believe  me,  we  know  how.  And  you  wouldn't 
have  to  do  a  thing  you  don't  want  to  do.  We've 
got  grandpa  tamed  now  in  regard  to  you.  We've 
told  him  that  you're  a  lady,  and  won't  stand  for 
that  rough  stuff.  He's  wild  about  you,  and  crazy 
to  see  you,  and  make  it  all  right  again.  Now  why 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  157 

not  use  a  little  sense  ?  Slip  a  note  under  my  door 
across  the  way  and  tell  me  that  you'll  doll  your- 
self up  and  be  ready  to  go  to  dinner  with  him 
tonight  at  seven." 

A  postscript  added:  "This  is  unsigned  and 
typewritten  on  your  own  typewriter  and  so 
couldn't  be  used  by  anyone  who  didn't  like  our 
way  of  doing  business.  For  your  own  safety 
though,  I  advise  you  to  burn  it." 

This  last  was  the  one  bit  of  advice  in  the  letter 
which  Susannah  followed.  She  lighted  a  match 
and  burned  it  over  her  water  basin.  Then  she 
forced  her  protesting  throat  to  swallow  a  glass 
of  milk.  She  ate  some  crackers.  After  that  she 
went  to  bed. 

What  to  do  and  where  to  go !  Over  and  over 
again,  she  turned  the  meager  possibilities  of  her 
situation.  Nothing  offered  escape.  A  hackneyed 
phrase  floated  into  her  mind — "  woman's  wit." 
From  time  immemorial  it  had  been  a  bromidiom 
that  any  woman,  however  stupid,  could  outwit  any 
man,  however  clever.  Was  it  true  ?  Perhaps  not 
all  the  time,  and  perhaps  sometimes.  That  was 


158  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

the  only  way  though — she  must  pit  her  nimble* 
inexperienced  woman's  wit  against  their  heavier 
but  trained  man's  wit.  Her  problem  was  to  get 
out  of  this  house,  unseen.  But  how?  All  kinds 
of  fantastic  schemes  floated  through  her  tired 
mind.  If  she  could  only  disguise  herself —  But 
she  would  have  to  go  out  first  to  get  the  disguise. 
And  Byan  was  across  the  hall,  waiting  for  just 
that  move.  If  there  were  only  a  convenient  fire- 
escape  !  But  of  course  he  would  anticipate  that. 
If  she  could  only  summon  a  taxi,  leap  into  it  and 
drive  for  an  hour!  But  she  would  have  to  tele- 
phone for  the  taxi  in  the  outside  hall,  where  Byan 
could  hear  her.  On  and  on,  she  drove  her  tired 
mind;  inventing  schemes  more  and  more  imprac- 
ticable. For  a  long  time,  that  woman's  wit 
spawned  nothing — 

Then  suddenly  a  curious  idea  came  to  her.  It 
was  so  ridiculous  that  she  rejected  it  instantly. 
Ridiculous — and  it  stood  ninety-nine  per  cent 
chance  of  failure ;  offered  but  one  per  cent  chance 
of  successs.  Nevertheless  it  recurred.  It  offered 
more  and  more  suggestion,  more  and  more  temp- 
tation. True,  it  was  a  thing  barely  possible ;  true 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  159 

also,  that  it  was  the  only  thing  possible.  But 
could  she  put  it  through?  Had  she  the  nerve? 
Had  she  the  strength? 

She  must  find  both  the  nerve  and  the  strength. 

She  bathed  and  dressed  quickly  and  with  a 
growing  steadiness.  She  packed  her  belongings 
into  her  suitcase,  put  Glorious  Lutie's  miniature 
in  her  handbag. 

She  sat  down  at  her  bureau  and  wrote  a  note : 

u  If  you  will  come  to  my  room,  after  you  have 
had  your  breakfast,  I  will  talk  the  matter  over 
with  you.  I  will  not  leave  the  building  before 
you  return.  I  will  be  ready  to  see  you  at  ten 
o'clock." 

She  opened  her  door,  walked  across  the  corri- 
dor; slipped  the  note  under  the  door  of  Byan's 
room.  Then  she  hurried  back;  locked  her  door; 
sat  down  and  waited,  her  hands  clasped.  Her 
hands  grew  colder  and  colder  until  they  seemed 
like  marble,  but  all  the  time  her  mind  seemed  to 
steady  and  clarify. 

After  a  long  while  she  heard  Byan's  door  open. 
She  heard  his  steps  retreating  down  the  hall  and 
over  the  stairs. 


160  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Ten  minutes  later,  Susannah  appeared,  suitcase 
in  hand,  at  the  janitor's  office  on  the  first  floor. 
"  I'm  Miss  Ayer  in  No.  9,  second  floor,"  she  said. 
"May  I  leave  this  suitcase  here?  I've  just 
thought  that  I  wanted  to  go  to  a  friend's  room  on 
the  fifth  floor  and  1  don't  want  to  lug  it  up  all 
those  stairs." 

The  janitor  considered  her  for  a  puzzled 
second.  Of  course  he  was  in  Byan's  pay,  Susan- 
nah reflected. 

"  Sure,"  he  answered  uncertainly  after  a  while. 

"  I'm  expecting  a  gentleman  to  call  on  me," 
Susannah  went  on  steadily.  '  Tell  him  I'll  be 
on  the  fifth  floor  at  No.  9.  My  friend  is  out," 
she  ended  in  glib  explanation,  "  but  she's  left  her 
key  with  me.  There's  a  little  work  that  I  wanted 
to  do  on  her  typewriter."  The  janitor — she  had 
worked  this  out  in  advance — must  know  that 
Room  9,  fifth  floor — was  occupied  by  a  woman 
who  owned  a  typewriter.  Susannah  established 
that  when,  a  few  days  before,  she  had  restored 
to  its  owner  a  letter  shoved  by  mistake  under  her 
own  door. 

Susannah  deposited  her  bag  on  the  floor  in  the 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  161 

janitor's  office.  She  walked  steadily  up  the  stairs 
to  the  second  floor.  She  felt  the  janitor's  gaze 
on  the  first  flight  of  her  progress.  She  stopped 
just  before  she  reached  her  own  room,  glanced 
back.  She  was  alone  there.  The  janitor  had  not 
followed  her.  Perhaps  Byan's  instructions  to  him 
were  only  to  watch  the  door.  With  a  swift 
pounce,  she  ran  to  Byan's  door,  turned  the  knob. 

It  opened. 

She  ran  to  the  closet;  opened  that.  As  she 
suspected,  it  was  empty.  Indeed,  her  swift  glance 
had  discovered  no  signs  of  occupancy  in  the  room. 
Even  the  bed  was  undisturbed.  Byan  had  hired 
it,  of  course,  just  for  the  purpose  of  being  there 
that  one  night.  Susannah  closed  the  closet  door 
after  her,  so  that  the  merest  crack  let  in  the  air 
she  should  demand — and  waited.  In  that  des- 
perate hour  when  she  lay  thinking,  the  idea  had 
suddenly  flashed  into  her  mind  that  there  was  only 
one  place  in  the  house  where  Byan  would  not  look 
for  her.  That  place  was  his  own  room.  But  it 
would  not  have  occurred  to  her  to  take  refuge 
there  if  she  had  not  noted,  even  in  her  taut  terror 
of  the  night  before,  that  when  Byan  entered  his 


162  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

own  room  he  had  omitted  to  lock  the  door  after 
him.  As  indeed,  why  should  he?  There  was 
nothing  to  steal  in  it  but  Byan.  Moreover,  of 
course  Byan  had  sat  up  all  night — his  door  un- 
locked— ready  to  forestall  any  effort  of  hers  to 
escape. 

An  hour  later  Susannah  heard  a  padded,  rather 
brisk  step  ascending  the  stairs,  coming  along  the 
hall.  It  was  Byan,  of  course — no  one  could  mis- 
take his  pace.  He  knocked  on  the  door  of  her 
room;  at  first  gently,  then  insistently.  A  pause. 
Then  he  tried  the  knob,  again  at  first  gently,  then 
insistently.  His  steps  retreated  down  the  hall  and 
the  stairs.  He  must  have  got  a  pass-key  from  the 
janitor,  for  when,  a  long  minute  later,  she  heard 
his  steps  return,  the  scraping  of  a  lock  sounded 
from  across  the  hall.  She  heard  her  somewhat 
rusty  door-hinges  creak.  There  followed  a  low 
whistle  as  of  surprise,  then  an  irregular  succes- 
sion of  steps  and  creaks  proving  that  he  was 
looking  under  the  bed,  was  inspecting  the  closet. 
She  heard  him  retreat  again  down  the  stairs,  and 
braced  herself  to  endure  a  longer  wait.  At  last, 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  163 

two  pairs  of  feet  sounded  on  the  stairs.  Had  her 
ruse  fully  succeeded — would  they  mount  at  once 
to  Room  9,  fifth  floor?  No — they  were  coming 
again  along  the  second-floor  corridor.  With  a 
tingle  of  nerves  in  her  temples  and  cheeks,  she 
realized  that  she  had  reached  the  supreme  mo- 
ment of  peril.  They  began  knocking  at  every 
door  on  the  second-floor  corridors.  Once  she 
heard  a  muffled  colloquy — the  impatient  tones  of 
some  strange  man,  the  apologetic  voice  of  the 
janitor.  At  other  doors  she  heard,  shortly  after 
the  knock,  the  scraping  of  the  pass-key.  Now 
they  were  in  the  room  just  beyond  the  wall  of  the 
closet  where  she  was  crouching.  She  heard  them 
enter  and  emerge — the  moment  had  come !  But 
their  footsteps  passed  her  door;  an  instant  later, 
she  heard  the  pass-key  grate  in  the  door  of  the 
room  on  the  other  side.  Then — one  hand  shak- 
ing convulsively  on  the  knob  of  Byan's  closet  door 
— she  heard  them  go  flying  up  the  stairs  to  the 
third  story — the  fourth — 

Before  noon  of  that  haunted,  hunted  morning, 
Susannah  found  a  room  in  a  curious  way.    When 


1 64  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

she  escaped  from  the  house  in  the  West  Twenties, 
she  had  walked  westward  almost  to  the  river. 
In  a  little  den  of  a  restaurant  just  off  the  docks, 
she  ordered  breakfast  and  the  morning  news- 
papers. But  when  she  tried  to  look  over  the 
advertising  columns  with  a  view  to  finding  a  room,, 
she  had  a  violent  fit  of  trembling.  The  members 
of  the  Carbonado  Mining  Company,  she  recalled 
to  herself,  were  studying  those  advertisements 
just  as  closely  as  she;  and  perhaps  at  that  very 
moment. 

Hiding  in  a  great  city!  Why,  she  thought  to 
herself,  it's  the  only  place  where  you  can't  hide ! 

Susannah  dawdled  over  breakfast  as  long  as 
she  dared.  She  found  herself  wincing  as  she 
emerged  onto  the  busy  dingy  street  of  docks.  She 
stopped  under  the  shade  of  an  awning  and  con- 
trolled the  abnormal  fluttering  of  her  heart  while 
she  thought  out  her  situation.  She  dared  no 
longer  walk  the  streets.  She  dared  not  go  to  a 
real-estate  agent.  How,  then,  might  she  find  a, 
room  and  a  hiding-place? 

Then  a  Salvation  Army  girl  came  picking  her 
way  across  the  crowded,  cluttered  dock-pavement 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  165 

toward  her  awning.  And  Susannah  had  a  sudden 
impulse  which  she  afterwards  described  to  Glori- 
ous Lutie  as  a  stroke  of  genius.  She  came  out  to 
the  edge  of  the  pavement  and  accosted  the  Blue 
Bonnet. 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  place  where  a  girl  who's 
a  stranger  in  New  York  may  find  a  cheap  and 
respectable  lodging?'*  she  asked. 

The  Salvation  Army  girl  gave  her  a  long, 
steady  scrutiny  from  under  the  scoop  of  her 
bonnet. 

"  My  sister  keeps  a  rooming-house  up  on 
Eighth  Avenue,"  she  said  finally.  "  She  always 
has  an  extra  room,  and  she  will  take  you  in,  I 
guess.  Have  you  a  bit  of  paper?  I'll  write  her 
a  note." 

Susannah  flew,  swift  as  a  homing  dove,  to  the 
address.  The  landlady,  a  shapeless,  featureless, 
middle-aged  blonde,  read  the  note ;  herself  gave  a 
long  glance  of  scrutiny,  and  showed  the  room. 
Susannah's  examination  was  merely  perfunctory. 
In  fact,  she  looked  with  eyes  which  saw  not. 
Probably  never  before  did  a  shabby,  battered  bed- 
chamber, stained  as  to  ceiling,  peeling  as  to  wall- 


1 66  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

paper,  carelessly  patched  as  to  carpet,  indescrib- 
ably broken-down  and  nondescript  as  to  furniture, 
seem  a  very  paradise  to  the  eyes  of  twenty-five. 

The  bed  was  humpy,  but  it  was  a  double  bed; 
and  clean.  Susannah  sank  on  to  it.  She  did  not 
rise  for  a  long  time.  Then,  true  to  her  accepted 
etiquette  on  occasions  of  this  kind,  she  drew  the 
miniature  from  her  handbag  and  pinned  it  on  to 
the  wall  beside  her  bureau. 

"  Glorious  Lutie,"  her  thoughts  ran,  "  I'm  as 
weak  as  a  sick  cat.  If  there  was  ever  a  girl 
more  terrified,  more  friendless,  more  worn-out 
than  I  feel  at  this  moment,  I'd  like  to  know  how 
she  got  that  way.  I  want  to  crawl  into  that  bed 
and  stay  there  for  a  week  just  reveling  in  the 
thought  that  I'm  safe.  Safe,  Glorious  Lutie. 
Safe !  Alone  with  you.  And  nobody  to  be  afraid 
of.  Our  funds  are  running  low  of  course.  I've 
nothing  to  pawn  except  you.  But  don't  be  afraid 
— I'll  never  pawn  you.  If  we  have  to  go  down, 
we'll  go  down  together  and  with  all  sails  set.  I've 
got  an  awful  hate  and  fear  on  this  job-hunting 
business  now.  Heaven  knows  I  don't  want  much 
money;  only  enough  to  live  on.  I  guess  I  won't 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  167 

try  to  be  a  high-class  queen  of  secretaries  any 
longer — or  at  least  for  the  present.  My  lay  is 
to  lie  low  for  a  month  or  two.  I'll  rest  for  a  few 
days.  Then  I'll  go  into — what?  What,  Glorious 
Lutie,  tell  me  what?  I've  got  it!  Domestic 
service.  That's  my  escape.  I've  certainly  got 
brains  enough  to  be  a  second  girl  and  they  never 
could  find  me  tucked  away  in  somebody's  house, 
especially  if  I  never  take  my  afternoons  out. 
Which,  believe  me,  Glorious  Lutie,  I  won't.  I'll 
spend  them  all  with  you.  Oh,  what  an  idea  that 
is!  I'll  wait  around  here  for  about  a  week  and 
then  I'll  tackle  one  of  the  domestic  service 
agencies.  If  I  know  anything  about  after-the- 
war  conditions,  I'll  be  snapped  up  like  hot  cakes." 
Keeping  her  promise  to  herself,  Susannah 
stayed  as  much  as  possible  indoors.  The  land- 
lady consented  to  give  her  breakfast,  but  she 
would  do  no  more — even  that  was  an  accommo- 
dation. In  gratitude,  Susannah  took  care  of  her 
own  room.  She  kept  it  in  spotless  order ;  she  even 
pottered  with  repairs.  With  breakfast  at  home, 
she  had  no  need  to  leave  the  house  of  mornings. 
She  went  without  luncheon;  and  late  in  the  after- 


1 68  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

noon,  before  the  home-going  flood  from  the  of- 
fices, she  had  dinner  in  a  Child's  restaurant  round 
the  corner.  For  the  rest  of  the  time,  she  read 
the  landlady's  books — few,  and  mostly  cheap. 
But  they  included  a  set  of  Dickens;  and  she  re- 
newed acquaintance  with  a  novelist  whom  she 
loved  for  himself  and  who  called  up  memories  of 
her  happiest  times.  But  her  mood  with  Dickens 
was  curiously  capricious.  His  deaths  and  perse- 
cutions and  poignant  tragedies  she  could  no  longer 
endure — they  swept  her  into  a  gulf  of  black 
melancholy.  On  the  second  day  of  her  voluntary 
imprisonment,  she  glanced  through  Bleak  House; 
stumbled  into  the  wanderings  of  Little  Jo  through 
the  streets  of  London.  Suddenly  she  surprised 
herself  by  a  fit  of  hysterical,  trembling  tears. 
This  explosion  cleared  her  mental  airs;  but  after- 
ward she  skipped  through  Dickens,  picking  and 
choosing  his  humors,  his  love-passages,  his  gar- 
gantuan feasts  in  wayside  inns. 

When  her  eyes  grew  weary  with  reading,  or 
when  she  ran  into  one  of  those  passages  which 

brought  the  black  cloud,  Susannah  gazed  vacantly 

j 

out  of  the  window. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  169 

Her  lodging-house  stood  on  a  corner;  she  had 
a  back,  corner  room  on  the  third  floor.  The 
house  next  door,  on  the  side  street,  finished  to  the 
rear  in  a  two-story  shed.  Its  roof  lay  almost 
under  her  window.  The  landlady,  upon  show- 
ing the  room,  had  called  her  attention  to  this  shed. 
u  We've  got  no  regular  fire  escapes,  dearie,"  she 
said,  "  but  in  case  of  trouble,  you're  all  right. 
You  just  step  out  here  and  if  the  skylight  ain't 
open,  somebody'll  get  you  down  with  a  ladder. 
A  person  can't  be  too  careful  about  fires ! " 
Across  the  skylight  lay  a  few  scanty  backyards- 
treeless,  grassless,  uninteresting.  This  city  area 
of  yards  and  sheds  seemed  to  be  the  club,  the 
Rialto  for  all  the  stray  cats  of  Eighth  Avenue. 
Susannah  named  them,  endowed  them  with  per- 
sonalities. Their  squabbles,  their  amours,  their 
melodramatic  stalking,  gave  her  a  kind  of 
apathetic  interest. 

The  interest  lessened  as  three  days  went  by, 
and  the  apathy  deepened.  "  It's  my  state  of 
mind,  Glorious  Lutie,"  she  apprised  the  minia- 
ture. "  It's  this  weight  that's  on  my  spirit.  It's 
fear.  Just  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  mind  off — -I 


170  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

mean  just  as  soon  as  I  become  convinced  that  I'm 
never  going  to  be  bothered  again,  it  will  go,  I'm 
sure.  Of  course  I  can't  help  feeling  as  I  do.  But. 
I  ought  not  to.  I'm  perfectly  safe  now.  In  a  few 
days  those  crooks  won't  trouble  about  me  any 
more.  It  will  be  too  late.  And  I  know  it." 

She  reiterated  those  last  two  sentences  as  though 
Glorious  Lutie  were  a  difficult  person  to  convince. 
The  next  morning,  however,  came  diversion. 
Work — roofing — began  on  the  shed  just  under 
her  window.  Susannah  watched  the  workmen 
with  an  interest  that  held,  at  first,  an  element  of 
determined  concentration.  The  roofers,  an 
elderly  man  and  a  younger  one,  incredibly  dirty 
in  their  blackened  overalls,  which  were  soon 
matched  by  face  and  hands,  were  very  conscious 
at  first  of  the  brilliant  tawny  head  just  above. 
Once,  muffled  by  the  window,  she  caught  an  al- 
lusion to  white  horses.  But  Susannah  ignored 
this;  continued  to  watch  them  disappearing  and 
emerging  through  the  open  skylight,  setting  up 
their  melting-pot,  arranging  their  sheets  of 
tin. 

Before  she  was  out  of  bed  next  morning  they 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  171 

were  making  a  metallic  clatter  with  their  ham- 
mers. In  her  normal  state,  Susannah  was  a  crea- 
ture almost  without  nerves.  She  even  retained  a 
little  of  the  child's  enjoyment  of  a  racket  for  its 
own  sake.  But  now — the  din  annoyed  her, 
annoyed  her  unspeakably.  She  crept  languidly 
out  of  bed,  peeped  through  the  edge  of  the  cur- 
tain. They  were  just  beginning  work.  It  would 
keep  up  all  day. 

u  I  can't  stand  this!  "  said  Susannah  aloud;  and 
then  began  one  of  her  wordless  addresses  to  the 
miniature. 

"  I  guess  the  time  has  come,  anyhow,  to  strike 
into  pastures  new.  Behold,  Glorious  Lutie,  your 
Glorious  Susie  descending  from  the  high  and 
mighty  position  of  pampered  secretary  to  that  of 
driven  slave.  Tomorrow  morn  I  apply  for  a  job 
as  second  girl.  If  it  weren't  for  this  headache, 
I'd  do  it  today." 

However,  the  hammering  only  intensified  her 
headache;  she  must  get  outside.  So  when  the 
landlady  arrived  with  her  breakfast,  Susannah  in- 
quired for  the  address  of  the  nearest  employment 
office.  She  dressed,  and  descended  to  the  street. 


172  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

As  always,  of  late,  she  had  a  shrinking  as  she 
stepped  out  into  the  open  world  of  men  and 
women.  When  she  had  controlled  this,  she 
moved  with  a  curious  apathy  to  the  old,  battered 
ground-floor  office  with  yellow  signs  over  its  front 
windows,  where  girls  found  work  at  domestic  serv- 
ice. Presently,  she  was  registered,  was  sitting  on 
a  long  bench  with  a  row  of  women  ranging  from 
slatternly  to  cheaply  smart.  She  scarcely  ob- 
served them.  That  apathy  was  settling  deeper 
about  her  spirits;  her  only  sensation  was  her  dull 
headache.  Somehow,  when  she  sat  still  it  was 
not  wholly  an  unpleasant  headache.  Then  the 
voice  of  the  sharp-faced  woman  at  the  desk  in  the 
corner  called  her  name.  It  tore  the  veil,  woke 
her  as  though  from  sleep.  She  rose,  to  face  her 
first  chance — a  thin,  severe  woman  with  a  mouth 
like  a  steel  trap. 

This  first  chance  furnished  no  opening,  how- 
ever; neither,  as  the  morning  wore  away,  did  sev- 
eral other  chances.  The  process  of  getting  a  sec- 
ond maid's  job  was  at  the  same  time  more  difficult 
and  less  difficult  than  she  had  thought.  Susannah 
had  forgotten  that  people  always  ask  servants  for 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  173 

references.  She  had  supposed  her  carefully 
worked  out  explanation  would  cover  that  situation 
— that  she  had  been  a  stenographer  in  Provi- 
dence ;  that  she  had  come  to  New  York  soon  after 
the  Armistice  was  signed,  hoping  for  a  bigger  out- 
look; that  the  returning  soldiers  were  snapping  up 
all  the  jobs;  that  she  had  tried  again  and  again 
for  a  position;  that  her  money  was  fast  going; 
that  she  had  been  advised  to  enter  domestic  serv- 
ice. Housekeepers  from  rich  establishments  and 
the  mistresses  of  small  ones  interviewed  her;  but 
the  lack  of  references  laid  an  impassable  barrier. 
In  the  afternoon,  however,  luck  changed.  A  subur- 
banite from  Jamaica,  a  round,  grizzled,  middle- 
aged  woman,  desperately  in  need  of  a  second  girl, 
cut  through  all  the  red-tape  that  had  held  the 
others  up.  '  You're  perfectly  honest,"  she  said 
meditatively,  "  about  admitting  youVe  had  no  ex- 
perience, and  you  look  trustworthy." 

"  I  assure  you,  madam," — Susannah  was  eager, 
but  wary;  not  too  eager.  She  even  laughed  a  little 
— u  I  am  honest — so  honest  that  it  hurts." 

'*  The  only  thing  is,"  her  interlocutor  went  on 
hesitatingly;  "  you  must  pardon  me  for  putting  it 


174  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

so  bluntly;  but  we  might  as  well  be  open  with 
each  other.  I'm  afraid  you'll  feel  a  little  above 
your  position." 

"  Well,"  Susannah  responded  honestly,  "  to  be 
straightforward  with  you,  I  suppose  I  shall.  But 
I  give  you  my  word,  I'll  never  show  it.  And 
that's  the  only  thing  that  counts,  isn't  it?  " 

The  woman  smiled. 

"  I  must  confess  I  like  you,"  she  burst  out  im- 
pulsively. "  But  how  am  I  going  to  know  that 
you're — all  right?" 

Susannah  sighed.  "  I  understand  your  situa- 
tion perfectly.  I  don't  know  how  you're  to  know 
I'm  all  right — morally  or  just  in  the  matter  of 
mere  honesty.  For  there's  nobody  but  me  to  tell 
you  that  I'm  moral  and  honest.  And  of  course 
I'm  prejudiced." 

"  Well,  anyway  I'm  going  to  risk  it.  I'm  en- 
gaging you  now.  It  is  understood — ten  dollars 
a  week;  and  alternate  Thursdays  and  Sundays  out. 
I  don't  want  you  until  tomorrow  because  I  want 
my  former  maid  out  of  the  house  before  you 
come.  Now  will  you  promise  me  that  you'll  take 
the  nine  train  tomorrow  ?  " 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  175 

"  I  promise,"  Susannah  agreed. 

"  But  that  reminds  me,"  the  woman  came  on 
another  difficulty,  "  what's  to  guarantee  that 
you'll  stay  with  me?" 

"  I  guarantee,"  Susannah  said  steadily,  "  that 
if  you  keep  to  your  end  of  the  agreement,  I'll'  stay 
with  you  at  least  three  months." 

The  woman  sparkled.  "  All  right,  I'll  expect 
you  tomorrow  on  the  nine  train.  I'll  be  there 
with  the  Ford  to  meet  you.  Here  are  the  direc- 
tions." She  scribbled  busily  on  a  card. 

Susannah  walked  home  as  one  who  treads  on 
air.  The  veil  of  apathy  had  broken.  And  in 
spite  of  her  headache,  which  caught  her  by  fits  and 
starts,  her  mood  broke  into  a  joy  so  wild  that  it 
sent  her  pirouetting  about  the  room.  "  Glorious 
Lutie,  I  never  felt  so  happy  in  my  life.  So  gayly, 
grandly,  gorgeously,  gor-gloriously  happy!  All 
my  troubles  are  over.  I'm  safe."  And  on  the 
strength  of  that  security,  she  washed  and  ironed 
her  lavender  linen  suit.  Her  headache  was  better 
again.  Perhaps  if  she  went  out  now  to  an  early 
dinner,  it  might  disappear  altogether.  But  how 
languorous  she  felt,  how  indisposed  to  effort.  She 


176  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

would  sit  and  read  a  while.  She  opened  Pickwick 
Papers  on  its  last  pages.  She  had  almost  finished 
the  book. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  I  have 
a  chance  to  do  any  more  reading,"  she  meditated. 
"  So  I  think  I'll  finish  this.  You've  helped  me 
through  a  hard  passage  in  my  life,  Charles 
Dickens,  and  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart." 

But  she  could  not  read.  As  soon  as  she  sat 
down  by  the  window  and  settled  her  eyes  on  the 
book,  the  headache  returned.  The  men  were  still 
at  work  on  the  roof,  hammering  away  at  one 
corner.  Every  blow  seemed  to  strike  her  skull. 
Midway  of  the  roof,  the  skylight  yawned  open; 
their  extra  tools  were  laid  out  beside  it.  At  five 
o'clock  they  would  quit  for  the  day.  Usually  she 
disliked  to  have  them  go.  In  spite  of  their  noise, 
she  felt  that  still.  They  gave  her  a  kind  of  warm, 
human  sense  of  companionship.  And  they  had 
become  accustomed  to  her  appearances  at  the 
window.  Their  flirtatious  first  glances  had  ceased 
for  want  of  encouragement.  They  scarcely 
seemed  to  see  her  when  they  looked  up.  But  now 
— that  hammering  at  her  skull!  Susannah  sud- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  177 

denly  rose  and  closed  the  window,  hot  though  the 
day  was,  against  this  torrent  of  sound.  As 
though  its  futile  shield  would  give  added  protec- 
tion, she  drew  the  curtain.  In  the  dimmed  light 
she  sat  rocking,  her  head  in  her  hands.  Her  face 
was  fire-hot — why,  she  wondered —  The  ham- 
mering stopped.  They  were  soldering  now. 
They  were  always  doing  that;  beating  the  tin 
sheets  into  place  and  stopping  to  solder  them. 
There  would  be  silence  for  a  time.  In  a  moment, 
she  would  open  the  window  for  a  breath  of  air  on 
her  burning  face  .  .  . 

She  started  at  a  knock  on  her  door,  low,  quick, 
but  abrupt.  Before  she  could  answer,  it  opened. 
His  face  shadowed  in  the  three-quarters  light,  but 
his  form  perfectly  outlined,  instantly  recognizable 
— stood  Warner.  Behind  Warner  was  Byan,  and 
behind  Byan,  O'Hearn. 

All  the  blood  of  her  heart  seemed  to  strike  in 
one  wave  on  Susannah's  aching  head,  and  then  to 
recede.  She  knew  both  the  tingling  of  terror  and 
the  numbness  of  horror.  Prickling,  stinging 
darts  volleyed  her  face,  her  hands,  her  feet;  and 
yet  she  seemed  to  be  freezing  to  stone. 


178  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

They  came  into  the  room  before  anyone  spoke 
— Warner  first.  Byan  lolled  to  a  place  in  the  cor- 
ner; the  three-quarters  light,  filtering  through  the 
thin  fabric  of  the  flimsy,  yellow  curtain,  revealed 
his  clean  profile,  his  mysterious  half-smile. 
O'Hearn  stood  just  at  the  entrance.  He  did  not 
continue  to  look  at  her.  His  eyes  sought  the 
floor. 

Warner  was  speaking  now: 

"  Good-evening,  Miss  Ayer.  We  have  come  to 
finish  up  that  little  piece  of  business  with  you.  It 
has  been  delayed  as  long  as  it  can  be.  Pardon  us 
for  breaking  in  upon  you  like  this.  Your  land- 
lady tried  to  prevent  us,  but  we  assured  her  that 
you  would  want  to  see  us.  As  I  think  you  will 
when  you  come  to  your  senses  and  hear  what  1 
have  to  say." 

He  stopped,  as  though  awaiting  her  reply.  But 
Susannah  made  no  answer.  She  had  dropped  her 
eyes  now;  her  hands  lay  limp  in  her  lap.  And  in 
this  pause,  a  curious  piece  of  byplay  passed  be- 
tween Warner  and  O'Hearn.  The  master  of  this 
trio  caught  the  glance  of  his  assistant  and,  with  a 
swift  motion  of  three  fingers  toward  the  lapel  of 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  179 

his  coat,  gave  him  that  "  office  "  in  the  under- 
world sign  manual — which  means  "  look  things 
over."  O'Hearn,  moving  so  lightly  that  Susan- 
nah scarcely  noted  his  passage,  stepped  to  the 
window,  lifted  the  edge  of  the  curtain.  He  took  a 
swift,  intent  look  outside  and  returned  to  Warner. 
His  back  to  Susannah,  he  spoke  with  his  lips, 
scarcely  vocalizing  the  words. 

"  No  getaway  there,  Boss — straight  drop — "" 
he  said. 

Warner  was  speaking  again. 

"  Your  landlady  says  we  may  have  her  parlor 
for  our  conference.  Wouldn't  you  prefer  to  make 
yourself  presentable  for  the  street  and  then  join 
us  there — in  about  ten  minutes,  say?  " 

Ten  minutes — this  gave  her  a  chance  to  play 
for  time — the  only  chance  she  had.  She  looked 
up.  Nothing  on  the  clean-cut,  pearl-white  ex- 
terior of  her  face  gave  a  clue  to  the  anarchy 
within;  nothing,  even,  in  her  black-fringed,  blue 
gaze  the  tautly-held  scarlet  lips.  Her  fire-bright 
head  lifted  a  little  higher  and  she  gazed  steadily 
into  Warner's  eyes,  as  she  spoke  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  to  her  to  belong  to  someone  else : 


i8o  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  I  can  give  you  a  few  minutes,  but  I  have  not 
changed  my  determination." 

"But  I  think  you  will,"  said  Warner.  ."I 
really  think  you  will.  Before  we  go,  I  might 
remind  you  that  we  have  been  extremely  gentle 
and  patient  with  you,  Miss  Ayer.  I  might  also 
remind  you  that  you  have  never  succeeded  in  giv- 
ing us  the  slip.  You  were  very  clever  when  you 
escaped  from  your  last  lodging.  We  don't  know 
yet  exactly  how  you  did  it.  Perhaps  you  will  tell 
us  in  the  course  of  our  little  talk  this  afternoon. 
But  you  were  not  quite  clever  enough.  You  did 
not  figure  that  with  such  important  matters  pend- 
ing, we  would  have  the  outside  of  the  house 
watched  as  well  as  the  inside.  So  that  you  may 
not  think  our  meeting  this  afternoon  is  accidental, 
let  me  remind  you  that  you  have  an  engagement 
for  tomorrow  afternoon  in  Jamaica — to  take  a 
job  as  second  maid.  What  we  have  to  offer  you 
this  afternoon  will  probably  be  so  attractive  that 
you  will  overlook  that  engagement." 

He  paused. 

11 1  will  be  with  you  in  ten  minutes,"  said  Susan- 
nah. She  was  conscious  of  no  emotion  now — only 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  181 

that  her  head  ached,  and  that  the  faded  roses 
in  the  old  carpet  were  entwined  with  forget- 
me-nots — a  thing  she  had  never  noticed  be- 
fore. 

(  Thank  you."  Warner  made  her  a  gallant 
little  bow.  "  Mr.  Byan  and  I  will  wait  in  the 
parlor.  Until  we  come  to  an  understanding,  we 
shall  have  to  continue  the  old  arrangement.  It 
will  therefore  be  necessary  for  Mr.  O'Hearn 
to  watch  in  the  hall.  If  you  do  not  ar- 
rive in  ten  minutes — this  room  will  probably 
do  as  well  as  the  parlor.  Until  then,  Miss 
Ayer!" 

He  opened  the  door,  passed  out.  Byan  re- 
treated after  him,  flashing  one  of  his  pathetically 
sweet,  floating  smiles.  Susannah  looked  up  now, 
followed  their  movements  as  the  felon  must 
follow  the  movements  of  the  man  with  the  rope. 
O'Hearn  had  been  standing  close  to  Susannah, 
his  veiling  lashes  down.  He  fell  in  behind  the 
other  two.  But  before  he  joined  the  file,  those 
lashes  came  up  in  a  quick  glance  which  stabbed 
Susannah.  His  hand  came  up  too.  He  was 
pointing  to  the  window.  And  then  he  spoke  two 


182  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

words  in  a  whisper  so  low  that  they  carried  only 
to  the  ears  of  Susannah,  scarce  three  feet  away — 
so  low  that  she  could  not  have  made  them  out  but 
for  the  exaggerated,  expressive  movement  of  his 
lips. 

"  Skylight — quick — "  he  said.  He  made  for 
the  door  in  the  wake  of  the  other  two. 

For  the  fraction  of  an  instant  Susannah  did 
not  comprehend.  And  then  suddenly  one  of  those 
little  intuitive  blows  which  she  was  always  receiv- 
ing and  ignoring  gave,  on  the  hard  surface  of  her 
mind,  a  faint  tap.  This  time,  she  was  conscious 
of  it.  This  time,  she  trusted  it  instantly.  This 
time,  it  told  her  what  to  do. 

"  I'll  be  with  you  as  soon  as  I  get  dolled  up," 
she  called. 

"  That's  right,"  came  the  suave  voice  of 
Warner  from  the  hall. 

She  closed  the  door.  She  listened  while  two 
sets  of  footsteps  descended  the  stairs.  She  heard 
a  third  set,  which  must  be  O'Hearn's,  retreat  for 
a  few  paces  and  then  stop.  She  fell  swiftly  to 
work.  She  put  on  her  hat  and  cape.  She  took 
the  miniature,  thumbtack  and  all,  from  the  wall, 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  183 

and  put  it  in  her  wrist  bag.  "  Help  me,  Glorious 
Lutie,"  she  called  from  the  depths  of  her  soul. 
"  Help  me !  Help  me !  Help  me !  I'm  lost  if 
you  don't  help  me !  I  can't  do  it  any  more  alone." 


VII 

WHEN  Lindsay  pulled  back  from  the  quiet  gray 
void  which  had  enshrouded  him,  he  was  lying  on 
the  grass.  Far,  far  away,  as  though  pasted 
against  the  brilliant  blue  sky,  was  a  face.  Grad- 
ually the  sky  receded.  The  face  came  nearer. 
It  topped,  he  gradually  gathered,  the  tiny  slender 
black-silk  figure  of  a  little  old  lady.  "  Do  you  feel 
all  right  now?  "  it  asked. 

Lindsay  wished  that  she  would  not  question 
him.  He  was  immensely  preoccupied  with  what 
seemed  essentially  private  matters.  But  the  in- 
stinct of  courtesy  prodded  him.  ;<  Very  much, 
thank  you,"  he  answered  weakly.  He  closed  his 
eyes  again.  He  became  conscious  of  a  wet  cloth 
sopping  his  forehead  and  cheeks.  A  breeze 
tingled  on  the  bare  flesh  of  his  neck  and  chest. 
He  opened  his  eyes  again;  sat  up.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  I  fainted?"  he  demanded  with  his  cus- 
tomary vigor. 

"  That's  exactly  what  you  did,  young  man,n 
184 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  185 

the  old  lady  answered.  "  The  instant  you  looked 
at  me !  I  was  setting  with  my  back  to  the  door. 
You  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather, 
when  you  fell  over  backwards." 

"  Have  I  been  out  long?  " 

"  Not  more'n  a  moment.  I  flaxed  around  and 
got  some  water  and  brought  you  to  in  a  jiffy.  You 
ain't  an  invalid,  are  you?  " 

"  Far  from  it,"  Lindsay  reassured  her.  "  I'm 
afraid,  though,  I've  been  working  too  long  in  the 
hot  sun  this  morning." 

u  Like  as  not!"  the  little  old  lady  agreed 
briskly.  u  I  guess  you're  hungry  too,"  she  haz- 
arded. '*  Now  you  just  get  up  and  lay  in  the 
hammock  and  I'm  going  to  make  you  some  lunch. 
I  see  there  was  some  eggs  there  and  milk  and  tea. 
I'll  have  you  some  scrambled  eggs  fixed  in  no  time. 
My  name  is  Spash — Mrs.  Spash." 

"  My  name  is  Lindsay — David  Lindsay." 

Lindsay  found  himself  submitting  without  a 
murmur  to  the  little  old  lady's  program.  He  lay 
quiescent  in  the  hammock  and  let  the  tides  of 
vitality  flow  back.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Spash's  prophecy, 
if  anything,  underestimated  her  energy.  In  an 


1 86  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

incredibly  short  time  she  had  produced,  in  col- 
laboration with  the  oil  stove,  eggs  scrambled  on 
bread  deliciously  toasted,  tea  of  a  revivifying  heat 
and  strength. 

"  Gee,  that  tastes  good!"  Lindsay  applauded. 
He  sighed.  "  It  certainly  takes  a  woman!  " 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?"  Mrs.  Spash  in- 
quired. "  Batching  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  describes  the  process,"  Lind- 
say admitted.  After  an  instant,  "  How  did  you 
happen  to  be  on  the  doorstep?" 

:t  Well,  I  don't  wonder  you  ask,"  Mrs.  Spash 
declared.  "  I  didn't  know  the  Murray  place  was 
let  and — well,  I  was  making  one  of  my  regular 
visits.  You  see,  I  come  here  often.  I'm  pretty 
fond  of  this  old  house.  I  lived  here  once  for 
years." 

Lindsay  sat  upright.  "  Did  you  by  chance  live 
here  when  Lutetia  Murray  was  alive  ?  " 

"Well,  I  should  say  I  did!  "  Mrs,  Spash  an- 
swered. "  I  lived  here  the  last  twenty  years  of 
Lutetia  Murray's  life.  I  was  her  housekeeper,  as 
you  might  say." 

Lindsay  stared  at  her.     He  started  to  speak. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  187 

It  was  obvious  that  conflicting  comments  fought 
for  expression,  but  all  he  managed  to  say — and  in- 
eptly enough — -was:  "  Oh,  you  knew  her,  then?  " 

"  Knew  her!  "  Mrs.  Spash  seemed  to  search 
among  her  vocabulary  for  words.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  her  soul  for  emotions.  '  Yes,  I  knew  her," 
she  concluded  with  a  feeble  breathlessness. 

"  You've  lived  in  this  house,  then,  for  twenty 
years,"  Lindsay  repeated,  musing. 

"  Yes,  all  of  that"  Mrs.  Spash  appeared  to 
muse  also.  For  an  instant  the  two  followed  their 
own  preoccupations.  Then  as  though  they  led 
them  to  the  same  impasse,  their  eyes  lifted  simul- 
taneously; met.  They  smiled. 

"  I've  bought  this  house,  Mrs.  Spash,"  Lind- 
say confided.  "  And  you  never  can  guess  why." 

Mrs.  Spash  started  what  appeared  to  be  a  com- 
ment. It  deteriorated  into  a  little  inarticulate 
murmur. 

"  I  bought  it,"  Lindsay  went  on,  "  because  when 
I  was  in  college,  I  fell  in  love  with  Lutetia  Mur- 
ray." And  then,  at  Mrs.  Spash' s  wide-eyed,  faded 
stare,  "  Not  with  Miss  Murray  herself — I  never 
saw  her — but  with  her  books.  I  read  everything 


1 88  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

she  wrote  and  I  wrote  in  college  what  we  call  a 
thesis  on  her." 

"  Sort  of  essay  or  composition,"  Mrs.  Spash 
defined  thesis  to  herself. 

"  Exactly,"  Lindsay  permitted. 

"  She  was — she  was — "  Mrs.  Spash  began  in  a 
dispassionate  sort  of  way.  She  concluded  in  a 
kind  of  frenzy.  "  She  was  an  angel." 

"  Oh  yes,  she's  that  all  right.  I  have  never 
seen  anybody  so  lovely." 

Mrs.  Spash  made  a  swift  conversational 
pounce.  "  I  thought  you  said  you'd  never  seen 
her." 

Lindsay  flushed  abjectly.  "  No,"  he  admitted. 
"  But  you  see  I  have  a  picture  of  her."  He 
pointed  to  the  mantel. 

"  Yes,  I  noticed  that  when  I  came  in  to  get 
some  water."  Strangely  enough  Mrs.  Spash  did 
not,  for  a  moment,  look  at  the  picture.  Instead 
she  stared  at  Lindsay.  Lindsay  submitted  easily 
enough  to  this  examination.  After  a  while  Mrs. 
Spash  appeared  to  abandon  her  scrutiny  of  him. 
She  trotted  over  to  the  fireplace;  studied  Lutetia's 
likeness. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  189 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  see  that  one — it  don't 
half  do  her  justice — I  hate  a  profile  picture — " 
She  pronounced  u  profile  "  to  rhyme  with  "  wood- 
pile." "  None  of  her  pictures  ever  did  do  her 
justice.  Her  beauty  was  mostly  in  her  hair  and 
her  eyes.  She  had  a  beautiful  skin  too,  though  she 
never  took  no  care  of  it.  Never  wore  a  hat — no 
matter  how  hot  the  sun  was.  And  then  her  ex- 
pression—  Well,  it  was  just  beautiful — changing 
all  the  time." 

Lindsay  was  only  half  listening.  He  was,  with 
an  amused  glint  in  his  eyes,  studying  Mrs.  Spash's 
spare,  erect  black-silk  figure.  She  was  a  relic  per- 
fectly preserved,  he  reflected,  of  mid- Victorian- 
ism.  Her  black  was  of  the  kind  that  is  accurately 
described  by  the  word  decent.  And  she  wore 
fittingly  a  little  black,  beaded  cape  with  a  black 
shade-hat  that  tilted  forward  over  her  face  at  a 
decided  slant.  Her  straight,  white,  abundant  hair 
was  apparently  parted  in  the  middle  under  her 
hat.  At  any  rate,  the  neat  white  parting  continued 
over  the  crown  of  her  head  to  her  very  neck, 
where  it  concealed  itself  under  a  flat  black-silk 
bow.  Her  gnarled,  blue-veined  hands  had  been 


190  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

covered  with  the  lace  mitts  that  now  lay  on  the 
table.  Her  little  wrinkled  face  was  neat- 
featured.  The  irises  of  her  eyes  were  a 
faded  blue  and  the  whites  were  blue  also;  and 
this  put  a  note  of  youthful  color  among  her 
wrinkles. 

But  Lindsay  lost  interest  in  these  details;  for, 
obviously,  a  new  idea  caught  him  in  its  instant 
clutch.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Spash,"  he  suggested, 
"  would  you  be  so  good  as  to  take  me  through 
this  house  ?  I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  occupied 
the  rooms.  This  is  not  mere  idle  curiosity  on  my 
part.  You  see  Miss  Murray's  publishers  have  de- 
cided to  bring  out  a  new  edition  of  her  works. 
They  want  me  to  write  a  life  of  Miss  Murray. 
I'm  asking  everybody  who  knows  anything  about 
her  all  kinds  of  questions." 

Mrs.  Spash  received  all  this  with  that  unstirred 
composure  which  indicates  non-comprehension  of 
the  main  issue. 

"  Of  course  I'm  interested  on  my  own  account 
too,"  Lindsay  went  on.  "  She's  such  a  wonder- 
ful creature,  so  charming  and  so  beautiful,  so 
sweet,  so  unbearably  poignant  and  sad.  I  can't 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  191 

understand,"  he  concluded  absently,  "  why  she  is 
so  sad." 

Mrs.  Spash  seemed  to  comprehend  instantly. 
"  It's  the  way  she  died,"  she  explained  vaguely, 
"  and  how  everything  was  left!  "  She  walked  in 
little  swift  pattering  steps,  and  with  the  accus- 
tomed air  of  one  who  knows  her  way,  through  the 
side  door  into  the  addition.  ;<  This  was  Miss 
Murray's  own  living-room,"  she  told  Lindsay. 
"  She  had  that  little  bit  of  a  stairway  made,  she 
said,  so's  too  many  folks  couldn't  come  up  to  her 
room  at  once.  Not  that  that  made  any  differ- 
ence. Wherever  she  was,  the  whole  household 
went." 

With  little  nipping  steps  Mrs.  Spash  ascended 
the  stairway.  Lindsay  followed. 

"  Did  Miss  Murray  die  in  her  room?"  Lind- 
say asked. 

"How  did  you  know  this  was  her  room?" 
Mrs.  Spash  demanded. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly.  I  just  guessed  it," 
Lindsay  answered.  "  I  sleep  here  myself,"  he 
hurriedly  threw  off. 

"  Yes.    She  died  here.    She  was  all  alone  when 

\ 


192  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

she  died.  You  see — •"  Mrs.  Spash  sat  down  on 
the  one  chair  and,  instantly  sensing  her  mood, 
Lindsay  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"  You  see,  things  hadn't  gone  very  well  for 
Miss  Murray  the  last  years  of  her  life.  Her 
books  didn't  sell —  And  she  spent  money  like 
water.  She  was  allus  the  most  open-hearted, 
open-handed  creature  you  can  imagine.  She  allus 
had  the  house  full  of  company!  And  then  there 
was  the  little  girl — Cherry — who  lived  with  her. 
At  the  end,  things  were  bad.  No  money 
coming  in.  And  Miss  Murray  sick  all  the 
time." 

"  You  say  she  was  alone  when  she  died,"  Lind- 
say gently  brought  her  back  to  the  track. 

"  Yes — except  for  little  Cherry,  who  slept  right 
through  everything — childlike.  Cherry  had  that 
room."  Mrs.  Spash  jerked  an  angular  thumb 
back. 

Lindsay  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  guessed  that — with 
all  the  drawings — " 

;'  The  Weejubs !  Mr.  Gale  drew  them  pictures 
for  Cherry.  He  was  an  artist.  He  used  to  paint 
pictures  out  in  the  backyard  there.  I  didn't  fancy 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  193 

them  very  much  myself — too  dauby.  You  had  to 
stand  way  off  from  them  'fore  they'd  look  like 
anything  a-tall.  But  he  used  to  get  as  high  as  five 
hundred  dollars  for  them.  Oh,  what  excitement 
there  was  in  this  house  while  he  was  decorating 
Cherry's  room !  And  little  Cherry  chattering  like 
a  magpie !  Mr.  Gale  made  up  a  whole  long  story 
about  the  Weejubs  on  her  walls.  Lord,  I've  for- 
gotten half  of  it;  but  Cherry  could  rattle  it  all 
off  as  fast.  Miss  Murray  had  that  door  between 
her  room  and  Cherry's  made  small  on  purpose. 
She  said  Cherry  could  come  into  her  room  when- 
ever she  wanted  to,  as  long  as  she  was  a  little  girl. 
But  when  Cherry  grew  up,  she  was  going  to 
make  it  hard  for  her.  But  she  promised  when 
Cherry  was  sixteen  years  old  she  shouldn't 
have  to  call  her  auntie  any  more — she  could 
call  her  jess  Lutetia.  Queer  idea,  worn't 
it?" 

Mrs.  Spash's  old  eyes  so  narrowed  before  an 
oncoming  flood  of  reminiscence  that  they  seemed 
to  retreat  to  the  back  of  her  head,  where  they 
diminished  to  blue  sparks.  For  a  moment  the 
room  was  silent  Then  "  Let  me  show  you  some- 


194  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

thing!  You'd  oughter  know  it,  seein'  it's  your 
house.  There's  some,  though,  I  wouldn't  show 
it  to." 

She  pattered  with  her  surprising  quickness  to 
the  back  wall.  She  pressed  a  spot  in  the  paneling 
and  a  small  square  of  the  wood  moved  slowly 
back. 

"  You  see,  Miss  Murray's  bed  ran  along  that 
wall,  just  as  Cherry's  did  in  the  other  room. 
Mornings  and  evenings  they  used  to  open  this 
panel  and  talk  to  each  other." 

Lindsay's  eyes  filmed  even  as  Mrs.  Spash's  had. 
Mentally  he  saw  the  two  faces  bending  toward 
the  opening.  .  .  . 

"  But  you  was  asking  about  Miss  Murray's 
death —  As  I  say,  things  didn't  go  well  with  her, 
I  didn't  understand  how  it  all  happened.  Folks 
stopped  buying  her  books,  I  guess.  Anyway, 
when  she  died,  there  was  nothing  left.  And 
there  was  debts.  The  house  and  everything  in  it 
was  sold — at  auction.  It  was  awful  to  see  Miss 
Murray's  things  all  out  on  the  lawn.  And  a  great 
crowd  of  gawks — riff-raff  from  everywhere — 
looking  at  'em  and  making  fun  of  'em —  She  had 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  195 

beautiful  things,  but  they  went  for  nothing  a-talL 
They  jess  about  paid  her  debts." 

Lindsay  groaned.    "  But  her  death — " 
"  Oh  yes,  as  I  was  sayin'.    You  see,  Miss  Mur- 
ray worn't  ever  the  same  after  Mr.  Lewis  died. 
You  know  about  that?  " 

Lindsay  nodded.  u  He  was  drowned." 
Mrs.  Spash  nodded  confirmatively.  '  Yes,  in 
Spy  Pond — over  South  Quinanog  way.  He  was 
swimming  all  alone.  He  was  taken  with  cramps 
way  out  in  the  middle  of  the  Pond.  Finally  some- 
body saw  him  struggling  and  they  put  out  in  a 
boat,  but  they  were  too  late.  Miss  Murray  was 
in  the  garden  when  they  brought  him  back  on  a 
shutter.  I  was  with  her.  I  can  see  the  way  her 
face  looked  now.  She  didn't  say  anything.  Not 
a  word !  She  turned  to  stone.  And  it  didn't  seem 
to  me  that  she  ever  came  back  to  flesh  again. 
They  was  to  be  married  in  October.  He  was  a 
splendid  man.  He  came  from  New  York." 

"  Yes.  Curiously  enough  I  spent  a  few  days 
in  what  used  to  be  his  rooms,"  Lindsay  informed 
her. 

"That  so?"     But  it  was  quite  apparent  that 


196  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

nothing  outside  the  radius  of  Quinanog  interested 
Mrs.  Spash  deeply.  She  made  no  further  com- 
ment. 

'*  Was  she  very  much  in  love  with  Lewis?" 
Lindsay  ventured. 

"  In  love !  I  wish  you  could  see  their  eyes  when 
they  looked  at  each  other.  They'd  met  late. 
Miss  Murray  had  always  had  lots  of  attention. 
But  she  never  seemed  to  care  for  anybody — 
though  she'd  flirt  a  little — until  she  met  Mr. 
Lewis.  It  was  love  at  first  sight  with  them." 

She  proceeded. 

"  Well,  Miss  Murray  died  five  years  after  Mr. 
Lewis.  She  died — well,  I  don't  know  exactly  what 
it  was.  But  she  had  attacks.  She  was  a  terrible 
sufferer.  And  she  was  worried — money  matters 
worried  her.  You  see,  little  Cherry's  mother  died 
when  she  was  born  and  her  father  soon  after. 
Miss  Murray'd  always  had  Cherry  and  felt  re- 
sponsible for  her.  I  know,  because  she  told  me.  '  It 
ain't  myself,  Eunice  Spash/  she  said  to  me  more'n 
once.  '  It's  little  Cherry.'  Anyway,  she  was 
alone  when  her  last  attack  came.  She'd  sent  for 
a  cousin — I  forget  the  name — to  be  with  her,  and 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  197 

she  was  up  in  Boston  getting  a  nurse,  and  I  was 
in  the  other  side  of  the  house.  I  never  heard  a 
sound.  We  found  her  dead  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor — there."  Her  crooked  forefinger  indicated 
the  spot.  "  Seemed  she'd  got  up  and  tried  to  get 
to  the  door  to  call.  But  she  dropped  and  died 
halfway.  She  was  all  contorted.  Her  face 
looked —  Not  so  much  suffering  of  the  body  as — 
Well,  you  could  see  it  in  her  face  that  it  come  to 
her  that  she  was  going,  and  Cherry  was  left  with 
nothing." 

"What  became  of  that  cousin?"  Lindsay  in- 
quired. "  I  have  asked  everybody  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, but  nobody  seems  to  know." 

"  And  I  don't  know.  She  went  to  Boston,  tak- 
ing Cherry  with  her.  For  a  time  we  heard  from 
Cherry  now  and  then — she'd  write  letters  to  the 
children.  Then  we  lost  sight  of  her.  I  don't 
know  whether  Miss  Murray's  cousin's  living  or 
dead;  Cherry  either." 

Lindsay  felt  that  he  could  have  assured  her  that 
Cherry  was  alive;  but  his  conclusion  rested  on 
premises  too  gauzy  for  him  to  hazard  the  state- 
ment. 


198  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Mrs.  Spash  sighed.  She  arose,  led  the  way  into 
the  hall.  "  This  was  Mr.  Monroe's  room;  and 
Mr.  Gale's  room  was  back  of  his.  He  liked  the 
room  that  overlooked  the  garden.  Mr. 
Monroe — " 

44  That's  the  big  man,  the  sculptor,"  Lindsay 
hazarded. 

44  How'd  you  know?  "  Mrs.  Spash  pounced  on 
him  again. 

44  Oh,  I've  talked  with  a  lot  of  people  in  the 
neighborhood,"  Lindsay  returned  evasively. 

44  That  Mr.  Monroe,"  Mrs.  Spash  glided  on 
easily,  4t  was  a  case  and  a  half.  Nothing  but 
talk  and  laugh  every  moment  he  was  in  the  house. 
I  used  to  admire  to  have  him  come." 

44  Where  is  he?"  Lindsay  asked  easily.  He 
hoped  Mrs.  Spash  did  not  guess  how,  mentally, 
he  hung  upon  her  answer. 

44  He  went  to  Italy — to  Florence — after  Miss 
Murray  died."  Mrs.  Spash  stopped.  a  He  was 
in  love  with  Miss  Murray.  Had  been  for  years. 
She  wouldn't  have  him  though.  He  was  an  awful 
nice  man.  Sometimes  I  thought  she  would  have 
him.  But  after  Mr.  Lewis  came —  Queer, 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  199 

worn't  it?  I  don't  know  whether  Mr.  Monroe's 
alive  or  dead.'* 

Again  Lindsay  felt  that  he  could  have  assured 
her  that  he  was  alive,  but  again  gauzy  premises 
inhibited  exact  conclusions. 

"  The  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  in  Rome. 
'Tain't  likely  he's  alive  now.  Land,  no !  He'd 
be  well  over  seventy — close  onto  seventy-five. 
Mr.  Gale  was  in  love  with  her  too.  He  was 
younger.  I  don't  think  he  ever  told  Miss  Mur- 
ray, I  never  did  know  if  she  knew.  You  couldn't 
fool  me  though.  Well,  I  started  out  to  show  you 
this  house.  I  must  be  gitting  on.  You've  seen 
the  slave  quarters  and  the  whipping-post  up- 
stairs?" 

"  Yes.  Everybody  could  tell  me  about  the 
whipping-post  and  the  slave  quarters.  But  the 
things  I  wanted  to  know — " 

11  Well,  it's  natural  enough  that  folks  shouldn't 
know  much  about  her.  Miss  Murray  was  a  lady 
that  didn't  talk  about  her  own  affairs  and  she  kept 
sort  of  to  herself,  as  you  might  say.  She  wasn't 
the  kind  that  ran  in  on  folks.  She  wrote  by  fits 
and  starts.  Sometimes  she'd  stay  up  late  at  night. 


200  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

She  allus  wrote  new-moon  time.  She  said  the 
light  of  the  crescent  moon  inspired  her.  How 
they  used  to  make  fun  of  her  about  that!  But 
she'd  write  with  all  of  them  about,  laughing  and 
talking  and  playing  the  piano  or  singing — and 
dancing  even.  The  house  was  so  lively  those  days 
— they  was  all  great  trainers.  And  yet  she  could 
fall  asleep  right  in  the  midst  of  all  that  confusion. 
Well — so  you  see  she  wasn't  given  to  making  calls. 
And  then  there  was  always  so  much  to  do  and  so 
many  folks  around  at  home.  Have  you  been  up- 
stairs in  the  barn?" 

"  No — not  yet.  The  stairs  were  all  broken 
away.  I  had  just  finished  mending  them  when  t 
had  the  pleasure  of  making  your  acquaint- 
ance." 

They  both  smiled  reminiscently. 

"  Let's  go  up  there  now — there  must  be  a  lot 
of  things — •"  She  ended  her  sentence  a  little 
vaguely  as  the  old  sometimes  do.  But  the  move- 
ment with  which  she  arose  from  her  chair  and 
trotted  toward  the  stairs  was  full  of  an  anticipa- 
tion almost  youthful. 

"  The  garden  used  to  be  so  pretty,"  she  sighed 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  201 

as  they  started  on  the  well-worn  trail  to  the  barn. 
"  Miss  Murray  worn't  what  you  might  call  prac- 
tical, but  she  could  make  flowers  grow.  She  never 
cooked,  nor  sewed,  nor  anything  sensible,  but 
she'd  work  in  that  garden  till —  There  was  cer- 
tain combinations  of  flowers  that  she  used  to  like ; 
hollyhocks,  especially  the  garnet  ones  so  dark 
they  was  almost  black,  surrounded  by  them  blue 
Canterbury  bells;  and  then  phlox  in  all  colors, 
white  and  pink  and  magenta  and  lavender  and 
purple.  I  think  there  was  some  things  put  out 
here,"  she  interrupted  herself  vaguely,  "  that  no- 
body wanted  at  the  auction.  There  wasn't  even  a 
bid  on  them." 

She  trotted  up  the  stairs  like  a  pony  that  has 
suddenly  become  aged.  Lindsay  followed,  two 
steps  at  a  time.  The  upper  story  of  the  barn  was 
the  confused  mass  of  objects  that  the  lumber  room 
of  any  large  household  inevitably  collects. 
Broken  chairs;  tables,  bureaux;  rejected  pieces 
of  china;  kitchen  furnishings;  a  rusty  stove, 
old  boxes;  bandboxes;  broken  trunks;  torn 
bags. 

'  There !    That's  the  table  Miss  Murray  used 


202  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

to  do  her  writing  at.  She  said  there  never  had 
been  a  table  built  big  enough  for  her.  I  expect 
that's  why  nobody  bought  it  at  the  auction. 
'Twas  too  big  for  mortal  use,  you  might  say. 
The  same  reason  I  expect  is  why  the  dining-room 
table  didn't  sell  either." 

'  Where  did  she  write?  "  Lindsay  asked,  meas- 
uring the  table  with  his  eye. 

"  All  summer  in  the  south  living-room.  But 
when  it  come  winter,  she'd  often  take  her  things 
and  set  right  in  front  of  the  fire  in  the  living- 
room.  Then  she'd  write  at  that  long  table  you're 
writing  on." 

"  This  table  goes  back  to  the  south  living-room 
tomorrow,"  Lindsay  decided  almost  inaudibly. 
"  Can  you  tell  me  the  exact  spot?  " 

**  I  guess  I  can.  Lord  knows  I've  got  down  on 
my  hands  and  knees  and  dusted  the  legs  often 
enough.  Miss  Murray  said,  though  it  was  soft 
wood,  it  was  the  oldest  piece  in  the  house.  She 
bought  it  at  some  old  tavern  where  they  was 
having  a  sale.  She  said  it  dated  back — 
long  before  Revolutionary  times — to  Colonial 
days." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  203 

"  Could  you  tell  me,  I  wonder,  about  the  rest 
of  Miss  Murray's  furniture?"  Lindsay  came 
suddenly  from  out  a  deep  revery.  "  Do  you  re- 
member who  bought  it?  I  would  like  to  buy  back 
all  that  I  can  get.  I'd  like  to  make  the  old  place 
look,  as  much  as  possible,  as  it  used  to  look." 

Mrs.  Spash  flashed  him  a  quick  intent  look. 
Then  she  meditated.  u  I  think  I  could  probably 
tell  you  where  most  every  piece  went.  The 
Drakes  got  the  Field  bed  and  the  ivory-keyhole 
bureau  and  the  ivory-keyhole  desk;  and  Miss 
Garnet  got  the  elephant  and  Mis'  Manson  got  the 
gazelles — " 

"  Elephant!     Gazelles!"  Lindsay  interrupted. 

'  The  gazelles,"  Mrs.  Spash  smiled  indul- 
gently. ;'  Well,  it  does  sound  queer,  but  Miss 
Murray  used  to  call  those  little  thin-legged  candle 
tables  that  folks  use,  gazelles.  The  elephant  was 
a  great  high  chest  of  drawers.  Mis'  Manson  got 
the  maple  gazelles — "  She  proceeded  in  what 
promised  to  be  an  indefinite  category. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  buy  any  of  those  things 
back?  "  Lindsay  asked  after  listening  patiently  to 
the  end. 


204  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  Some  of  them,  I  guess.  I  have  a  few  things 
in  my  attic  I'll  sell  you — and  some  I'll  give  you. 
I'd  admire  to  see  them  in  the  old  place  once 


more." 


"  You  must  let  me  buy  them  all,"  Lindsay  pro- 
tested. 

"  Well,  we'll  see  about  that,"  Mrs.  Spash  dis- 
posed of  this  disagreement  easily.  "  Have  you 
seen  the  Dew  Pond  yet?  " 

"  The  Dew  Pond!  "  Lindsay  echoed. 

"  The  little  pond  beyond  the  barn,"  Mrs.  Spash 
explained.  Then,  as  though  a  great  light  dawned, 
"  Oh,  of  course  it's  all  so  growed  up  round  it 
you'd  never  notice  it.  Come  and  I'll  show  it  to 
you." 

Lindsay  followed  her  out  of  the  barn.  This 
was  all  like  a  dream,  he  reflected — but  then  every- 
thing was  like  a  dream  nowadays.  He  had  lived 
in  a  dream  for  two  months  now.  Mrs.  Spash 
struck  into  a  path  which  led  beyond  the 
barn. 

The  trail  grew  narrower  and  narrower;  threat- 
ened after  a  while  to  disappear.     Lindsay  finally ' 
took  the  lead,  broke  a  path.    They  came  presently 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  205 

on  a  pond  so  tiny  that  it  was  not  a  pond  at  all; 
it  was  a  pool.  Water-lilies  choked  it;  forget-me- 
nots  bordered  it;  high  wild  roses  screened  it. 

Lindsay  stood  looking  for  a  long  time  into  it. 
"  It's  the  Merry  Mere  of  Mary  Towle,"  he  medi- 
tated aloud.  Mrs.  Spash  received  this  in  the  un- 
interrogative  silence  with  which  she  had  received 
other  of  his  confidences.  She  apparently  fell  back 
easily  into  the  ways  of  literary  folk. 

"  I  remember  now  I  got  a  glint  of  water  from 
one  of  the  upstairs  bedrooms,"  Lindsay  went  on, 
"  the  first  time  I  came  into  the  house.  But  I 
forgot  it  instantly;  and  Fve  never  noticed  it 


since." 


"  Wait  a  moment!"  Mrs.  Spash  seemed 
afraid  that  he  would  leave.  "  There's  something 
else."  She' attempted  to  push  her  way  through 
the  jungle  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  For  an 
instant  her  progress  was  easy,  then  bushes  and 
vines  caught  her.  Lindsay  sprang  to  her  assist- 
ance. 

"  There's  something  here — that  was  left,"  she 
panted.  "  Folks  have  forgotten  all  about — " 
She  dropped  explanatory  phrases. 


206  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Heedless  of  tearing  thorns  and  piercing 
prickers,  Lindsay  crashed  on.  Mrs.  Spash 
watched  expectantly. 

"  There!  "  she  called  with  satisfaction. 

On  a  cairn  of  rocks,  filmed  over  by  years  of 
exposure  to  the  weather,  stood  what  Lindsay  im- 
mediately recognized  to  be  a  large  old  rum-jar. 
The  sun  found  exposed  spots  on  its  surface, 
brought  out  its  rich  olive  color. 

"  After  Mr.  Lewis  died,"  Mrs.  Spash  ex- 
plained, "  Miss  Murray  went  abroad  for  a  year. 
She  went  to  Egypt.  She  put  this  here  when  she 
came  home.  Then  you  could  see  it  from  the 
house.  The  sun  shone  on  it  something  handsome. 
She  told  me  once  she  went  into  a  temple  on  the 
Nile  cut  out  of  the  living-rock,  where  there  was 
room  after  room,  one  right  back  of  the  other.  In 
the  last  one,  there  was  an  altar;  and  once  a  year, 
the  first  ray  of  the  rising  sun  would  strike  through 
all  the  rooms  and  lay  on  that  altar.  Worn't  that 
cute?  I  allus  thought  she  had  that  in  mind  when 
she  put  this  here." 

Lindsay  contemplated  the  old  rum-jar.  Mrs. 
Spash  contemplated  him.  And  suddenly  it  was  as 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  207 

though  she  were  looking  at  Lindsay  from  a  new 
point  of  view. 

Lindsay's  face  had  changed  subtly  in  the  last 
two  months.  The  sun  of  Quinanog  had  added  but 
little  to  the  tan  and  burn  with  which  three  years 
of  flying  had  crusted  it.  He  was  still  very  hand- 
some. It  was  not,  however,  this  comeliness  that 
Mrs.  Spash  seemed  to  be  examining.  The  ex- 
periences at  Quinanog  had  softened  the  deliberate 
stoicism  of  his  look.  Rather  they  had  fed  some 
inner  softness;  had  fired  it.  His  air  was  now  one 
of  perpetual  question.  Yet  dreams  often  invaded 
his  eyes;  blurred  them;  drooped  his  lips. 

"  It's  all  unbelievable,"  Lindsay  suddenly  com- 
mented, "  I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  you. 
I  don't  believe  myself." 

Mrs.  Spash  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
young  man's  face.  Her  look  had  grown  piercing. 

"  Have  you  a  shovel  handy?  "  she  surprisingly 
asked. 

uYes,  why?" 

Mrs.  Spash  did  not  answer  immediately.  He 
turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  still  gazing  at 
him  hard;  but  the  light  from  some  long-harbored 


208  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

emotion  of  her  dulled  old  soul  was  shining  bluely 
in  her  dulled  old  eyes. 

"  I  want  you  should  get  it,"  she  ordered 
briefly.  '  There's  something  right  here,"  she 
pointed,  "  that  I  want  you  to  dig  up." 


VIII 

SUSANNAH  let  herself  lightly  down  on  the  tin 
roof;  it  was  scarcely  a  step  from  her  window. 
With  deliberate  caution,  she  turned  and  drew  the 
shade.  Then  she  tiptoed  toward  the  skylight. 
The  workmen  were  still  soldering ;  the  older  man, 
with  the  air  of  one  performing  a  delicate  opera- 
tion, lay  stretched  out  flat,  holding  some  kind  of 
receptacle;  the  younger  was  pouring  molten  lead 
from  a  ladle.  Try  as  she  might,  she  could  not 
prevent  her  feet  from  making  a  slight  tapping  on 
the  tin.  The  older  man  glanced  sharply  up. 
"  Look  out!"  called  the  younger,  and  he  bent 
again  to  his  work.  Almost  running  now,  she 
stepped  into  the  gaping  hole  of  the  skylight.  The 
stairs  were  very  steep — practically  a  ladder.  As 
she  disappeared  from  view,  she  heard  a  quick 
"  What  the  hell!  "  from  the  roof  above  her. 

Susannah  hurried  forward  along  a  dark  pass- 
age, looking  for  stairs.  The  passage  jutted,  be- 
came lighter,  went  forward  again.  This  must 

209 


210  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

be  the  point  where  the  shed-addition  joined  the 
main  building.  She  was  in  the  hallway  of  a  dingy, 
conventional  flat-house,  with  doors  to  right  and 
left.  One  of  these  doors  opened;  a  woman  in  a 
faded  calico  dress  looked  her  over,  the  glance  in- 
cluding the  traveling-bag;  then  picked  up  a  letter 
from  the  hall-floor,  and  closed  it  again.  Susannah 
found  herself  controlling  an  impulse  to  run.  But 
no  steps  sounded  behind  her — she  was  not  as 
yet  pursued.  And  there  was  the  stairway — at  the 
very  front  of  the  house !  She  descended  the  two 
flights  to  the  entrance.  There,  for  a  moment,  she 
paused.  As  soon  as  Warner  discovered  her 
flight,  they  would  be  after  her.  The  workmen 
would  point  the  way.  The  street — and  quick — 
was  the  only  chance.  Noiselessly  she  opened  the 
door.  At  the  head  of  the  steps  leading  to  the 
street,  she  stopped  long  enough  for  a  look  to  right 
and  left.  Only  a  scattered  afternoon  crowd — no 
Warner,  no  Byan.  An  Eighth  Avenue  tram-car 
was  ringing  its  gong  violently.  On  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  safety,  she  shot  down  the  steps,  ran  past 
her  own  door  to  the  corner.  An  open  south- 
bound car  had  drawn  up,  was  taking  on  pas- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  211 

sengers.  She  reached  it  just  as  the  conductor  was 
about  to  give  the  forward  signal,  and  was  almost 
jerked  off  her  feet  as  she  stepped  onto  the  plat- 
form. Steadying  herself,  she  looked,  in  the  brief 
moment  afforded  by  the  bumpy  crossing  of  the 
car,  down  the  side  street. 

The  entrances  of  her  own  house  at  the  corner, 
the  entrances  to  the  house  she  had  just  left,  were 
blank  and  undisturbed;  no  one  was  following  her. 
She  paid  her  fare,  and  settled  down  on  the  end 
of  a  cross-seat. 

And  now  she  was  aware  not  of  relief  or  re- 
action or  fear,  but  solely  of  her  headache.  It  had 
changed  in  character.  It  had  become  a  furious 
internal  bombardment  of  her  brows.  If  she 
turned  her  eyes  to  right  or  left,  she  seemed  to  be 
dragging  weights  across  the  front  of  her  brain. 
Yet  this -headache  did  not  seem  quite  a  part  of 
herself.  It  was  as  though  she  knew,  by  a  super- 
normal sensitiveness,  the  symptoms  of  someone 
else.  It  was  as  though  suddenly  she  had  become 
two  people.  Anyway,  it  had  ceased  to  be  per- 
sonal. And  somewhere  else  within  her  head  was 
growing  a  delicious  feeling  of  freedom,  of  light- 


212  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

ness,  of  escape  from  a  wheel.  Her  evasion  of 
the  Carbonado  Mining  Company  did  not  account 
for  all  that;  she  felt  free  from  everything.  "  I'm 
not  going  to  take  any  more  rooms,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  I'm  going  to  sleep  out  of  doors  now, 
like  the  birds.  People  find  you  when  you  take 
rooms.  Where  shall  I  begin?  "  She  considered; 
and  then  one  of  those  little  hammers  of  intuition 
seemed  to  tap  on  her  brain.  Again,  she  did  not 
resist.  "  Why,  Washington  Square  of  course !  " 
she  said  to  herself. 

The  car  was  threading  now  the  narrow  ways 
of  Greenwich  Village.  It  stopped;  Susannah 
stepped  off.  The  rest  seemed  for  a  long  time  to 
be  just  wandering.  But  that  curious  sense  of  dual- 
ity had  vanished.  She  was  one  person  again.  She 
did  not  find  Washington  Square  easily;  but  then, 
it  made  no  difference  whether  she  ever  found  it. 
For  New  York  and  the  world  were  so  amusing 
when  once  you  were  free!  You  could  laugh  at 
everything — the  passing  crowds,  surging  as 
though  business  really  mattered;  the  Carbonado 
Mining  Company;  the  grisly  old  fool  in  their 
toils,  and  Susannah  Ayer.  You  could  laugh  even 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  213 

at  the  climate — for  sometimes  it  seemed  very  hot, 
which  was  right  in  summer,  and  sometimes  cold, 
which  wasn't  right  at  all.  You  could  laugh  at  the 
headache,  when  it  tied  ridiculous  knots  in  your 
forehead.  There  was  the  Arch — Washington 
Square  at  last. 

But  it  wasn't  time  to  sleep  in  Washington 
Square  yet.  The  birds  hadn't  gone  to  bed.  Spar- 
rows were  still  pecking  and  squabbling  along  the 
borders  of  the  flower-beds.  Besides,  New  York 
was  still  flowing,  on  its  homeward  surge  from  of- 
fice and  workshop,  down  the  paths.  Susannah 
sat  down  on  a  bench  and  considered.  She  had  a 
disposition  to  stay  there — why  was  she  so  weak? 
Oh,  of  course  she  hadn't  eaten.  People  always 
had  dinner  before  going  to  bed.  She  must  eat — 
and  she  had  money.  She  shook  out  her  pocket- 
book  into  her  lap.  A  ten-dollar  bill,  a  one-dollar 
bill,  and  some  small  change.  She  must  dine  glori- 
ously— free  creatures  always  did  that  when  they 
had  money.  Besides,  she  was  never  going  to  pay 
any  more  room  rent.  Susannah  rose,  strolled  up 
Fifth  Avenue.  The  crowd  was  thinning  out. 
That  was  pleasant,  too.  She  disliked  to  get  out 


2i4  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

of  the  way  of  people.  She  was  crossing  Twenty- 
third  Street  now;  and  now  she  was  before  the  cor- 
rect, white  fagade  of  the  Hague  House.  A 
proper  and  expensive  place  for  dinner. 

Susannah  found  it  very  hard  to  speak  to  the 
waiter.  It  was  like  talking  to  someone  through  a 
partition.  It  seemed  difficult  even  to  move  her 
lips ;  they  felt  wooden. 

"A  petite  marmite,  please;  then  I'll  see  what 
more  I  want,"  she  heard  herself  saying  at  last. 

But  when  the  petite  marmite  came,  steaming  in 
its  big,  red  casserole,  she  found  herself  quite  dis- 
inclined to  eat — almost  unable  to  eat.  She  man- 
aged only  two  or  three  mouthfuls  of  the  broth; 
then  dallied  with  the  beef.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause instantly — and  for  no  reason  whatever — 
she  had  become  two  people  again.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  she  had  been  drinking  so  much  ice- 
water.  It  couldn't  be  because  H.  Withington 
Warner  was  sitting  at  the  next  table  to  the  right. 
It  couldn't  be  that — because  she  had  told  him, 
when  first  she  saw  him  sitting  there,  that  she  was 
no  longer  afraid  of  the  Carbonado  Company. 
And  indeed,  when  she  turned  to  the  left  and  saw 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  215 

him  sitting  there  also — when  by  degrees  she  dis- 
covered that  there  was  one  of  him  at  every  table 
in  the  room,  she  thought  of  Alice  in  the  Trial 
Scene  in  Wonderland,  and  became  as  contemp- 
tuous as  Alice.  "  After  all,'*  she  said,  "  you're 
only  a  pack  of  cards." 

With  a  flourish,  the  waiter  set  the  dinner-card 
before  her,  asking:  "  What  will  you  have  next, 
Madame  ?  "  Oh  yes,  she  was  dining ! 

u  I  think  I  can't  eat  any  more — the  bill,  please," 
she  heard  one  of  her  selves  saying.  That  self,  she 
discovered,  took  calm  cognizance  of  everything 
about  her;  listened  to  conversation.  As  the 
waiter  turned  his  back,  that  half  of  her  saw  that 
Mr.  Warner  wasn't  there  any  more;  neither  at 
the  table  on  her  right,  nor  anywhere.  But  when 
she  had  paid  the  bill,  tipped,  and  risen  to  go,  the 
other  self  discovered  that  he  was  back  again  at 
every  table;  and  that  with  every  Warner  was  a 
Byan  and  an  O'Hearn.  "  I  am  snapping  my 
fingers  at  them,  though  nobody  sees  it,"  she  said 
to  both  her  selves.  "  I  can't  imagine  how  they 
ever  troubled  me  so  much.  They  don't  know 
what  I'm  doing!  I'm  sleeping  out  of  doors;  they 


216  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

can  find  me  only  in  rooms !  "  As  though  stag- 
gered by  her  complete  composure,  not  one  of  this 
triplicate  multitude  of  enemies  followed  her  out- 
side. 

"  Now  I'll  go  to  Washington  Square,"  she  said, 
realizing  that  her  personalities  had  merged  again. 
"The  birds  must  be  in  bed."  She  took  a  bus; 
and  sank  into  languor  and  that  curious,  im- 
personal headache  until  the  conductor,  calling 
"  All  out,"  at  the  south  terminus,  recalled  to  her 
that  she  was  going  somewhere.  ;<  I  must  have 
been  asleep,"  she  thought.  "  Isn't  this  a  wonder- 
ful world?" 

The  long,  early  summer  twilight  was  just  be- 
ginning to  draw  about  the  world.  The  day  lin- 
gered though — in  an  exquisite  luminousness.  All 
around  her  the  city  was  grappling  tentatively  with 
oncoming  dusk.  On  a  few  of  the  passing  limou- 
sines, the  front  lamps  struck  a  garish  note.  Near, 
the  Fifth  Avenue  lights  were  like  slowly  burning 
bonfires  in  the  trees;  in  the  distance,  seemingly 
suspended  by  chains  so  delicate  that  they  were  in- 
visible, they  diminished  to  pots  of  gold.  The  six- 
o'clock  rush  had  long  ago  ceased.  Now  everyone 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  217 

sauntered;  for  everyone  was  freshly  caparisoned 
for  the  wonderful  night  glories  of  midsummer 
Manhattan. 

Susannah  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  Washington 
Square  and  surveyed  this  free  world.  Though 
her  eyes  burned,  they  saw  crystal-clear.  All  about 
her  Italian-town  mixed  democratically  with  Green- 
wich Village;  made  contrasting  color  and  noise. 
Fat  Italian  mothers,  snatching  the  post-sunset 
breezes,  chattered  from  bench  to  bench  while 
they  nursed  babies.  On  other  benches,  lovers 
clasped  hands.  Children  played  over  the  grass. 
The  birds  twittered  and  the  trees  murmured. 
Every  color  darted  pricklingly  distinct  to  Susan- 
nah's avid  eyes,  burning  and  heavy  though  it 
was.  Every  sound  came  distinct  to  her  avid  ears, 
though  it  sounded  through  a  ringing. 

The  Fifth  Avenue  busses  were  clumping  and 
lumbering  in  swift  succession  to  their  stopping- 
places.  How  much,  Susannah  thought,  they 
looked  like  prehistoric  beetles;  colossally  big; 
armored  to  an  incredible  hardness  and  polish. 
And,  already,  roped-off  crowds  of  people  were  pa- 
tiently waiting  upstairs  seats.  As  each  bus 


218  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

stopped,  there  came  momentary  scramble  and 
confusion  until  inside  and  out  they  filled  up.  She 
watched  this  process  for  a  long,  long  time. 

"  I  can't  go  to  sleep  yet,"  she  said  to  herself 
finally,  "  the  people  won't  let  me.  One  can't  sleep 
in  this  wonderful  world.  Where  does  one  go 
after  dinner?  Oh,  to  the  theater,  of  course!  On 
Broadway !  "  She  found  herself  drifting,  happily 
though  languorously,  through  the  arch  and  north- 
ward. 

Twilight  had  settled  down;  had  become  dusk; 
had  become  night.  New  York  was  so  brilliant 
that  it  almost  hurt.  It  was  deep  dusk  and  yet  the 
atmosphere  was  like  a  purple  river  flowing  be- 
tween stiff  canon-like  buildings.  Everywhere  in 
that  purple  river  glittered  golden  lights.  And, 
floating  through  it,  were  mermaids  and  mermen 
of  an  extreme  beauty.  Susannah  passed  from 
Fifth  Avenue  to  Broadway.  She  stopped  under 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  palace-fronts  of  light, 
and  bought  a  ticket  in  the  front  row.  The  curtain 
was  just  rising  on  the  second  act  of  a  musical 
comedy.  Susannah  would  have  been  hazy  about 
the  plot  anyway,  for  the  simple  reason  that  there 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  219 

was  no  plot.  But  tonight  she  was  peculiarly  hazy, 
because  she  enjoyed  the  dancing  so  much  that  she 
became  oblivious  to  everything  else.  Indeed,  at 
times  she  seemed  to  be  dancing  with  the  dancers. 
The  illusion  was  so  complete  that  she  grew  dizzy; 
and  clung  to  the  arm  of  her  seat.  She  did  not 
want  to  divide  into  two  people  again. 

After  a  while,  though,  this  sensation  disap- 
peared in  a  more  intriguing  one.  For  suddenly 
she  discovered  that  the  audience  consisted  entirely 
of  her  and  the  Carbonado  Mining  Company.  H. 
Withington  Warners,  by  the  hundred,  filled  the 
orchestra  seats.  Byans,  by  the  score,  filled  the 
balcony.  O'Hearns,  by  the  dozen,  filled  the  gal- 
lery. But  this  did  not  perturb  her.  u  You're  only 
a  pack  of  cards,"  she  accused  them  mentally. 
And  she  stayed  to  the  very  end. 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  remarked  contemptuously 
as  she  turned  to  go  out.  For  the  Carbonado  Min- 
ing Company  had  vanished  into  thin  air.  She 
was  the  only  real  person  who  left  the  theater. 

When  she  came  out  on  the  street  again,  her 
headache  had  stopped  and  the  languor  was  over. 
There  was  a  beautiful  lightness  to  her  whole 


220  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

body.  That  lightness  impelled  her  to  walk  with 
the  crowd.  But — she  suddenly  discovered — she 
was  not  walking.  She  was  floating.  She  even 
flew — only  she  did  not  rise  very  high.  She  kept 
an  even  level,  about  a  foot  above  the  pavement; 
but  at  that  height  she  was  like  a  feather.  And  in 
a  wink — how  this  extraordinary  division  hap- 
pened, she  could  not  guess — she  was  two  people 
once  more. 

New  York  was  again  blooming;  but  this  time 
with  its  transient,  vivacious  after-the-theater 
vividness.  Crowds  were  pouring  up;  pouring 
down,  deflecting  into  side  streets;  emerging  from 
side  streets.  Everywhere  was  light.  Taxicabs  and 
motors  raced  and  spun  and  backed  and  turned; 
they  churned,  sizzled,  spluttered,  and  foamed — 
scattering  light.  Tram-cars,  the  low-set,  armored 
cruisers  of  Broadway,  flashed  smoothly  past, 
overbrimming  with  light.  The  tops  of  the  build- 
ings held  great  congregations  of  dancing  stars. 
Light  poured  down  their  sides. 

Susannah  floated  with  the  strong  main  current 
of  the  crowd  up  Broadway  and  then,  with  a  side 
current,  a  little  down  Broadway.  Eddies  took 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  221 

her  into  Forty-second  Street,  and  whirled  her 
back.  And  all  the  time  she  was  in  the  crowd,  but 
not  of  it — she  was  above  it.  She  was  looking 
down  on  people — she  could  see  the  tops  of  their 
heads.  Susannah  kept  chuckling  over  an  ex- 
traordinary truth  she  discovered. 

"  I  must  remember  to  tell  Glorious  Lutie,"  she 
said  to  herself,  <(  how  few  people  ever  brush  their 
hats." 

While  one  self  was  noting  this  amusing  fact, 
however,  the  other  was  listening  to  conversations; 
the  snatches  of  talk  that  drifted  up  to  her. 

"  Let's  go  to  a  midnight  show  somewhere," 
a  peevish  wife-voice  suggested. 

"  No,  sir! "  a  gruff  husband-voice  answered. 
"  LIT  ole  beddo  looks  pretty  good  to  muh.  I 
can't  hit  the  hay  too  soon." 

"What's  Broadway  got  on  Market  Street?" 
a  blithe  boy's  voice  demanded.  "  Take  the  view; 
from  Twin  Peaks  at  night.  Why,  it  has  Broad- 
way beat  forty  ways  from  the  jack." 

"  I'll  say  so !  "  a  girl's  voice  agreed.' 

Theaters  were  empty  now,  but  restaurants  were 
filling.  In  an  incredibly  short  time,  this  phan- 


222  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

tasmagoria  of  movement,  this  kaleidoscope  of 
color,  this  hurly-burly  of  sound  had  shattered, 
melted,  fallen  to  silence.  People  disappeared  as 
though  by  magic  from  the  street;  now  there  were 
great  gaps  of  sidewalk  where  nobody  appeared. 
Susannah — both  of  her,  because  now  she  seemed 
to  have  become  two  people  permanently — felt 
lonely.  She  quickened  her  pace,  her  floating 
rather,  to  catch  up  with  a  figure  ahead.  It  was 
a  girl,  just  an  everyday  girl,  in  a  white  linen  suit 
and  a  white  sailor  hat  topping  a  mass  of  black 
hair.  She  carried  a  handbag.  Susannah  found 
herself  following,  step  by  step,  behind  this  girl 
whose  face  she  had  as  yet  not  seen.  She  was 
floating;  yet  every  time  she  tried  to  see  the  top 
of  that  sailor  hat  her  vision  became  blurred.  It 
was  annoying;  but  this  stealthy  pursuit  was  pleas- 
ant, somehow — satisfying. 

"  They've  been  shadowing  me,"  said  Susannah 
to  herself.  "  Now  I'm  shadowing.  I've  helped 
the  Carbonado  Company  to  rob  orphans.  I'm 
going  to  break  my  promise  to  go  to  Jamaica  to- 
morrow. Isn't  it  glorious  to  float  and  be  a 
criminal !  " 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  223: 

So  she  followed  westward  on  Forty-second 
Street  and  reached  the  Public  Library  corner  of 
Fifth  Avenue,  which  stretched  now  deserted  ex- 
cept where  knots  of  people  awaited  the  omni- 
busses.  Such  a  knot  had  gathered  on  that  corner. 
Suddenly  the  girl  in  white  raised  her  hand,  waved; 
a  woman  in  a  light-blue  summer  evening  gown  an- 
swered her  signal  from  the  crowd;  they  ran  to- 
ward each  other.  They  were  going  to  have  a 
talk.  Susannah  floated  toward  them.  The  air- 
currents  made  her  a  little  wabbly — but  wasn't  it 
fun,  eavesdropping  and  caring  not  the  least  bit. 
about  manners ! 

"  My  train  doesn't  start  until  one,"  said  the 
white  linen  suit.  u  It's  no  use  going  back  to  my 
room — the  night  is  so  hot.  I've  been  to  the 
Summer  Garden,  and  I'm  killing  time." 

"  Oh,"  asked  blue  dress,  "  did  you  sublet  your 
room?" 

"  No,"  said  the  white  linen  suit,  "  I'll  be  gone 
for  only  a  month,  and  I  decided  it  wasn't  worth 
while.  I'll  have  it  all  ready  when  I  get  back. 
I've  even  left  the  key  under  the  rug  in  the 
hall." 


224  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  I  wouldn't  ever  do  that!  "  came  the  voice  of 
the  blue  dress. 

"  Well,"  said  the  linen  suit,  "  you  know  me!  I 
always  lose  keys.  I'm  convinced  that  when  I  get 
to  Boston,  I  shan't  have  my  trunk  key!  And 
there  isn't  much  to  steal." 

"  Still,  I'd  feel  nervous  if  I  were  you." 

"  1  don't  see  why.  Nobody  stays  up  on  the 
top  floor,  where  I  am — that  is,  in  the  summer. 
All  the  other  rooms  are  in  one  apartment,  and  the 
young  man  who  lives  there  has  been  away  for 
ages.  -  The  people  on  the  ground  floor  own  the 
house.  I  get  the  room  for  almost  nothing  by 
taking  care  of  it  and  the  hall.  I  haven't  seen 
anyone  else  on  the  floor  since  the  man  in  the 
apartment  went  away.  That's  why  I  love  the 
place — you  feel  so  independent!  " 

"  I  think  I  know  the  house,"  said  blue  dress. 
"  The  old  house  with  the  fanlight  entrance,  isn't 
it?  Mary  Merle  used  to  have  a  ducky  little  flat 
on  the  second  floor,  didn't  she?" 

"  Yes — Number  Fifty-seven  and  a  Half — 

Susannah  was  floating  down  the  Avenue  now. 
But  floating  with  more  difficulty.  Why  was  there 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  225 

effort  about  floating?  And  why  did  she  keep  re- 
peating, "  Number  Fifty-seven  and  a  Half,  Wash- 
ington Square,  top  floor,  key  under  the  rug?  " 

She  met  few  people.  A  policeman  stared  at  her 
for  a  moment,  then  turned  indifferently  away. 
How  surprising  that  her  floating  made  no  im- 
pression upon  him!  But  then,  there  was  no  law 
against  floating !  Once  she  drifted  past  H.  With- 
ington  Warner,  who  was  staring  into  a  shop  win- 
dow. He  did  not  see  her.  Susannah  had  to 
inhibit  her  chuckles  when,  floating  a  foot  above 
his  head,  she  realized  for  the  first  time  that  he 
dyed  his  hair.  Why  could  she  see  that?  He 
should  have  his  hat  on — or  was  she  seeing 
through  his  hat? 

She  was  passing  under  the  arch  into  Washing- 
ton Square.  But  she  wasn't  floating  any  longer. 
She  was  dragging  weights;  she  was  wading 
through  something  like  tar,  which  clung  to  her 
feet.  She  was  coughing  violently.  She  had  been 
coughing  for  a  long  time.  Night  in  New  York 
was  no  longer  beautiful;  glorious.  Tragic  hor- 
rors were  rasping  in  her  head.  There  was 
Warner.  And  there  was  Byan.  She  could  not 


226  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

snap  her  fingers  at  them  now.  .  .  .  But  she 
knew  how  to  get  away  from  them  .  .  .  she  must 
rest  .  .  . 

She  cut  off  a  segment  of  Washington  Square, 
looking  for  a  number.  There  was  a  fanlight; 
and,  plain  in  the  street  lamps,  seeming  for  a  mo- 
ment the  only  object  in  the  world,  the  number 
"  Fifty-seven  and  a  Half."  The  outer  door  gave 
to  her  touch.  A  dim  point  of  gaslight  burned  in 
the  hall.  She  floated  again  for  a  minute  as  she 
mounted  the  stairs.  .  .  .  She  was  before  a  door. 
.  .  .  She  was  on  her  hands  and  knees  fumbling 
under  the  rug  .  .  .  She  was  dragging  herself  up 
by  the  door-knob  .  .  . 

The  key  opened  the  door. 

Light,  streaming  from  somewhere  in  the  back- 
yard areas,  illuminated  a  wide  white  bed. 

"  I  am  sick,  Glorious  Lutie — I  think  I  am  very 
sick,"  said  Susannah.  "  Watch  me,  won't  you? 
Keep  Warner  out!"  Fumbling  in  the  bag,  she 
draw  out  the  miniature,  set  it  up  against  the 
mirror  on  the  bureau  beside  the  bed — just  where 
she  could  see  it  plainly  in  the  shaft  of  light. 

She  locked  the  door.     She  lay  down. 


IX 

LINDSAY  sat  in  the  big  living-room  beside  the 
refectory  table.  Mrs.  Spash  moved  about  the 
room  dusting;  setting  its  scanty  furnishings  to 
rights.  On  the  long  table  before  him  was  set  out 
a  series  of  tiny  villages,  some  Chinese,  some 
Japanese :  little  pink  or  green-edged  houses  in 
white  porcelain;  little  thatched-roofed  houses  in 
brown  adobe;  pagodas;  bridges;  pavilions. 
Dozens  of  tiny  figures,  some  on  mules,  others  on 
foot,  and  many  loaded  with  burdens  walked  the 
streets.  A  bit  of  looking-glass,  here  and  there, 
made  ponds.  Ducks  floated  on  them,  and  boats; 
queer  Oriental-looking  skiffs,  manned  by  tiny, 
half-clad  sailors;  Chinese  junks.  In  neighboring 
pastures,  domestic  animals  grazed.  Roosters, 
hens,  chickens  grouped  in  back  areas. 

"  That's  just  what  Miss  Murray  used  to  do," 
Mrs.  Spash  observed.  "  She'd  play  with  them  toys 
for  hours  at  a  time.  And  of  course  Cherry  loved 

227 


228  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

them  more  than  anything  in  the  house.     That's 
the  reason  I  stole  them  and  buried  them." 

"  How  did  you  manage  that  exactly?  "  Lindsay 
asked. 

"  Oh,  that  was  easy  enough,"  Mrs.  Spash  con- 
fessed cheerfully.  "  Between  Miss  Murray's 
death  and  the  auction,  I  was  here  a  lot,  fixing 
up.  They  all  trusted  me,  of  course.  Those  toys 
was  all  set  out  in  little  villages  by  the  Dew  Pond. 
Nobody  knew  that  they  were  there.  So  I  just 
did  them  up  in  tissue  paper  and  put  them  in  that 
big  tin  box  and  hid  them  in  the  bushes.  One 
night  late  I  came  back  and  buried  them.  Folks 
didn't  think  of  them  for  a  long  time  after  the 
auction.  You  see,  nobody  had  touched  them  dur- 
ing Miss  Murray's  illness.  And  when  they  did 
remember  them,  they  thought  they  had  disap- 
peared during  the  sale."  Mrs.  Spash  paused  a 
moment.  Her  face  assumed  an  expression  of  ex- 
treme disapproval.  "  Other  things  disappeared 
during  the  sale,"  she  accused,  lowering  her  voice. 

"Who  took  them?"  Lindsay  asked. 

All  the  caution  of  the  Yankee  appeared  in  Mrs. 
Spash's  voice.    "  I  don't  know  as  I'd  like  to  say, 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  229 

because  it  isn't  a  thing  anybody  can  prove.     I 
have  my  suspicions  though." 

Lindsay  did  not  continue  these  inquiries. 
"  Where  did  Miss  Murray  get  all  these  toys?  " 
"  Well,  a  lot  of  'em  came  from  China.  Miss 
Murray  had  a  great-uncle  who  was  a  sea-captain. 
He  used  to  go  on  them  long  whaling  voyages. 
He  brought  them  to  her  different  times.  Miss 
Murray  had  played  with  them  when  she  was  a 
child,  and  so  she  liked  to  have  little  Cherry  play 
with  them.  Sometimes  they'd  all  go  out  to  the 
Dew  Pond — Miss  Murray,  Mr.  Monroe,  Mr. 
Gale,  Mr.  Lewis,  and  spend  a  whole  afternoon 
laying  them  out  in  little  towns — jess  about  as 
you've  got  'cm  there.  There  was  two  little  places 
on  the  shore  that  Miss  Murray  had  all  cut  down, 
so's  the  bushes  wouldn't  be  too  tall.  They  useter 
call  the  pond  the  Pacific  Ocean.  One  of  them 
cleared  places  was  the  China  coast  and  the  other 
the  Japanese  coast.  They'd  stay  there  for  hours, 
floating  little  boats  back  and  forth  from  China 
to  Japan.  And  how  they'd  laugh  1  I  useter  listen 
to  their  voices  coming  through  the  window.  But 
then,  the  house  was  always  full  of  laughter.  It 


230  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

began  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  they 
got  up,  and  it  never  stopped  until — after  mid- 
night sometimes — when  they  went  to  bed.  Oh,  it 
was  such  a  gay  place  in  those  days." 

Lindsay  arose  and  stretched.  But  the  stretch- 
ing did  not  seem  so  much  an  expression  of  fatigue 
or  drowsiness  as  the  demand  of  his  spirit  for  im- 
mediate activity  of  some  sort.  He  sat  down 
again  instantly.  Under  his  downcast  lids,  his 
eyes  were  bright.  "  These  walls  are  soaked  with 
laughter,"  he  remarked. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Spash  seemed  to  understand. 
**  But  there  was  tears  too  and  plenty  of  them — 
in  the  last  years." 

"  I  suppose  there  were,"  Lindsay  agreed.  He 
did  not  speak  for  a  moment;  nor  did  Mrs.  Spash. 
There  came  a  silence  so  concentrated  that  the 
sunlight  poured  into  it  tangible  gold.  Then,  out- 
side a  thick  white  cloud  caught  the  sun  in  its 
woolly  net.  The  world  gloomed  again. 

"  She's  sad  still,"  Lindsay  dropped  in  absent 
comment. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Spash  agreed. 

"I  wonder  what  she  wants?"     Lindsay  ad- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  231 

dressed  this  to  himself.  His  voice  was  so  low 
that  perhaps  Mrs.  Spash  did  not  hear  it.  At  any 
rate  she  made  no  answer. 

Another  silence  came. 

Mrs.  Spash  finished  her  dusting.  But  she 
lingered.  Lindsay  still  sat  at  the  t"ble;  but  his 
eyes  had  left  the  little  villages  arranged  there. 
They  went  through  the  door  and  gazed  out  into 
the  brilliant  patch  of  sunlight  on  the  grass. 
There  spread  under  his  eyes  a  narrow  stretch  of 
lawn,  all  sun-touched  velvet ;  beyond  a  big  crescent 
of  garden.  Low-growing  zinnias  in  futuristic 
colors,  high  phlox  in  pastel  colors;  higher,  Canter- 
bury bells,  deep  blue;  highest  of  all,  hollyhocks, 
wine  red.  Beyond  stretched  further  expanses  of 
lawn.  One  tall,  wide  wine-glass  elm  spread  a  per- 
fect circle  of  emerald  shade.  One  low,  thick 
copper-beech  dropped  an  irregular  splotch  of 
luminous  shadow.  Beyond  all  this  ran  the  gray, 
lichened  stone  wall.  And  beyond  the  stone  wall 
came  unredeemed  jungle.  Mrs.  Spash  began,  all 
over  again,  to  dust  and  to  arrange  the  scanty  fur- 
niture. After  a  while  she  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Lindsay— " 


232  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Lindsay  started  abruptly. 

"  Mr.  Lindsay — that  time  you  fainted  when 
you  first  saw  me,  setting  out  there  on  the  door- 
stone,  you  remember — •?" 

Lindsay  nodded. 

"  Well,  who  was  you  expecting  to  see?  " 

Lindsay,  alert  now  as  a  wire  spring,  turned  on 
her,  not  his  eyes  alone,  nor  his  head;  but  his  whole 
body.  Mrs.  Spash  was  looking  straight  at  him. 
Their  glances  met  midway.  The  old  eyes 
pierced  the  young  eyes  with  an  intent  scrutiny. 
The  young  eyes  stabbed  the  old  eyes  with  an  in- 
tense interrogation.  Lindsay  did  not  answer  her 
question  directly.  Instead  he  laughed. 

"  I  guess  I  don't  have  to  answer  you,"  he  de- 
clared. "  I  had  seen  her  often  then.  ...  I 
had  seen  the  others  too.  .  .-  .  I  don't  know  why 
you  should  have  frightened  me  when  they  didn't. 
...  I  think  it  was  that  I  wasn't  expecting  any- 
thing human.  .  .  .  I've  seen  them  since.  .  .  . 
They  never  frighten  me." 

Mrs.  Spash's  reply  was  simple  enough.  "  I 
see  them  all  the  time."  She  added,  with  a  delicate 
lilt  of  triumph,  "  I've  seen  them  for  years — " 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  233 

Lindsay  continued  to  look  at  her — and  now 
his  gaze  was  somber;  even  a  little  despair- 
ing. ;  "  What  do  they  want?  What  does  she 
want?" 

Mrs.  Spash's  reply  came  instantly,  although 
there  were  pauses  in  her  words.  "  I  don't  know. 
I've  tried  ...  I  can't  make  out."  She  accom- 
panied these  simple  statements  with  a  reinforcing 
decisive  nod  of  her  little  head. 

"  I  can't  guess  either — I  can't  conjecture — 
There's  something  she  wants  me  to  do.  She  can't 
tell  me.  And  they're  trying  to  help  her  tell  me. 
All  except  the  little  girl — " 

"  Do  you  see  the  little  girl?"  Mrs.  Spash  de- 
manded. "  Well,  I  declare  !  That's  very  queer, 
I  must  say.  I  never  see  Cherry." 

;'  I  wish  I  saw  her  oftener,"  Lindsay  laughed 
ruefully.  "She  doesn't  ask  anything  of  me. 
She's  just  herself.  But  the  others — Gale — 
Monroe—  My  God!  It's  killing  me !"  He 
laughed  again,  and  this  time  with  a  real  amuse- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Spash  interrupted  his  laughter.  "  Do  you 
see  Mr.  Monroe?"  she  asked  in  a  pleased  tone. 


234  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  Well,  I  declare !  Aren't  you  the  fortunate  crea- 
ture. I  never  see  him!  " 

"All  the  time,"  Lindsay  answered  shortly. 
"  If  I  could  only  get  it.  I  feel  so  stupid,  so  in- 
credibly gross  and  lumbering  and  heavy.  I'd  do 
anything — " 

He  arose  and  walked  over  to  the  picture  of 
Lutetia  Murray  which  still  hung  above  the  fire- 
place. He  stared  at  her  hard.  "  I'd  do  anything 
for  her,  if  I  could  only  find  out  what  it  was." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Spash  admitted  dispassionately, 
"  that's  the  thing  everybody  felt  about  her,  they'd 
do  anything  for  her.  Not  that  she  ever  asked 
them  to  do  anything — " 

Lindsay  began  to  pace  the  length  of  the  long 
room.  "  What  is  happening?  Has  the  old  ram- 
shackle time-machine  finally  broken  a  spring  so 
that,  in  this  last  revolution,  it  hauls,  out  of  the 
past,  these  pictures  of  two  decades  ago?  Or  is 
it  that  there  are  superimposed  one  on  the  other 
two  revolving  worlds — theirs  and  ours — and 
theirs  or  ours  has  stopped  an  instant,  so  that  I 
can  glance  into  theirs?  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
in  the  dark  of  a  camera  obscura  gazing  into  their 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  235 

brightness.  Or  have  those  two  years  in  the  air 
permanently  broken  my  psychology;  so  that 
through  that  rift  I  shall  always  have  the  power  to 
look  into  strange  worlds?  Or  am  I  just  piercing 
another  dimension?" 

Mrs.  Spash  had  been  following  him  with  her 
faded,  calm  old  eyes.  Apparently  she  guessed 
these  questions  were  not  addressed  to  her.  She 
kept  silence. 

"  I've  racked  my  brain.  I  lie  awake  nights  and 
tear  the  universe  to  pieces.  I  outguess  guessing 
and  outconjecture  conjecture.  My  thoughts  fly  to 
the  end  of  space.  My  wonder  invades  the  very 
citadel  of  fancy.  My  surmises  storm  the  last  out- 
post of  reality.  But  it  beats  me.  I  can't  get  it." 
Lindsay  stopped.  Mrs.  Spash  made  no  comment. 
Apparently  her  twenty  years'  training  among 
artists  had  prepared  her  for  monologues  of  this 
sort.  She  listened;  but  it  was  obvious  that  she  did 
not  understand;  did  not  expect  to  understand. 

"  Does  she  want  me  to  stay  here  or  go  there?" 
Lindsay  demanded  of  the  air.  "  If  here,  what 
does  she  want  me  to  do?  If  there — where  is 
there?  If  there,  what  does  she  want  me  to  do 


236  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

there?  Is  her  errand  concerned  with  the  living 
or 'the  dead?  If  the  living,  who?  If  the  dead, 
who  ?  Where  to  find  them  ?  How  to  find  them  ?  " 
He  turned  his  glowing  eyes  on  Mrs.  Spash.  "  I 
only  know  two  things.  She  wants  me  to  do  some- 
thing. She  wants  me  to  do  it  soon.  Oh,  I  sup- 
pose I  know  another  thing —  If  I  don't  do  it 
soon,  it  will  be  too  late." 

Mrs.  Spash  was  still  following  him  with  her 
placid,  blue,  old  gaze.  '  There,  there !  "  she  said 
soothingly.  "  Now  don't  you  get  too  excited,  Mr. 
Lindsay.  It'll  all  come  to  you." 

"  But  how — "  Lindsay  objected.  "  And 
when—" 

"  I  don't  know — but  she'll  tell  you  somehow. 
She's  cute — •  She's  awful  cute.  You  mark  my 
words,  she'll  find  a  way." 

"  That's  the  reason  I  don't  have  you  in  the 
house  yet,  Mrs.  Spash,"  Lindsay  explained. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  have  to  tell  me  that,"  Mrs. 
Spash  announced,  triumphant  because  of  her  own 
perspicuity. 

11  It's  only  that  I  have  a  feeling  that  she  can 
do  it  more  easily  if  we're  alone.  That's  why  I 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  237 

send  you  home  at  night.  She  comes  oftenest  in 
the  evening  when  I'm  alone.  They  all  do.  Oh, 
it's  quite  a  procession  some  nights.  They  come 
one  after  another,  all  trying — "  He  paused. 
"  Sometimes  this  room  is  so  full  of  their  torture 
that  I —  You  know,  it  all  began  before  I  came 
here.  It  began  in  an  apartment  in  New  York. 
It  was  in  Jeffrey  Lewis'  old  rooms.  He  tried  to 
tell  me  first,  you  see." 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  Lewis  there  ?  "  Mrs.  Spash 
asked  this  as  casually  as  though  she  had  said, 
"Has  the  postman  been  here  this  morning?" 
She  added,  "  I  see  him  here." 

"  No,  I  didn't  see  him,"  Lindsay  explained 
grimly,  "  but  I  felt  him.  And,  believe  me,  I 
knew  he  was  there.  He  was  the  only  one  of  the 
lot  that  frightened  me.  I  wouldn't  have  been 
frightened  if  I  had  seen  him.  It  was  he,  really, 
who  sent  me  here.  I  work  it  out  that  he  couldn't 
get  it  over  and  he  sent  me  to  Lutetia  because  he 
thought  she  could.  I  wonder — "  he  stopped 
short.  This  explanation  came  as  though  some- 
thing had  flashed  electrically  through  his  mind. 
But  he  did  not  pursue  that  wonder. 


238  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  Well,  don't  you  get  discouraged,"  Mrs.  Spash 
reiterated.  "  You  mark  my  words,  she'll  manage 
to  say  what  she's  got  to  say." 

"  Well,  it's  time  I  went  to  work,"  Lindsay  re- 
marked a  little  listlessly.  "After  all,  the  life 
of  Lutetia  Murray  must  get  finished.  Oh,  by 
the  way,  Mrs.  Spash,"  Lindsay  veered  as  though 
remembering  suddenly  something  he  had  for- 
gotten, "  do  other  people  see  them?  " 

"  No — at  least  I  never  heard  tell  that  they 
did." 

"  How  did  the  rumor  get  about  that  the  place 
was  haunted,  then?" 

"  I  spread  it,"  Mrs.  Spash  explained.  "  I 
didn't  want  folks  breaking  in  to  see  if  there  was 
anything  to  steal.  And  I  didn't  want  them  poking 
about  the  place." 

u  How  did  you  spread  it?  " 

"  I  told  children,"  Mrs.  Spash  said  simply. 
"  Less  than  a  month,  folks  were  seeing  all  kinds  of 
ridic'lous  ghosts  here.  Nobody  likes  to  go  by 
alone  at  night." 

"  It's  a  curious  thing,"  Lindsay  reverted  to  his 
main  theme,  "  that  I  know  her  message  has  noth- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  239 

ing  to  do  with  this  biography.  I  don't  know  how 
I  know  it;  but  I  do.  Of  course,  that  would  be  the 
first  thing  a  man  would  think  of.  It  is  something 
more  instant,  more  acute.  It  beats  me  altogether. 
All  I  can  do  is  wait." 

"  Now  don't  you  think  any  more  about  it,  Mr. 
Lindsay,"  Mrs.  Spash  advised.  "  You  go  up- 
stairs and  set  to  work.  I'm  going  to  get  you  up 
the  best  lunch  today  you've  had  yet." 

"  That's  the  dope,"  Lindsay  agreed.  "  The 
only  way  to  take  a  man's  mind  off  his  troubles  is 
to  give  him  a  good  dinner.  You'll  have  to  work 
hard,  though,  Eunice  Spash,  to  beat  your  own 
record." 

Lindsay  arose  and  sauntered  into  the  front  hall 
and  up  the  stairs.  He  turned  into  the  room  at 
the  right  which  he  had  reserved  for  work,  now 
that  Mrs.  Spash  was  on  the  premises.  At  this 
moment,  it  was  flooded  with  sunlight.  ...  A 
faint  odor  of  the  honeysuckle  vine  at  the  corner 
seemed  to  emanate  from  t!ie  light  itself.  .  .  . 

Instantly  ...  he  realized  .  .  .  that  the 
room  was  not  empty. 

Lindsay  became  feverishly  active.    Eyes  down, 


24o  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

he  mechanically  shuffled  his  papers.  He  collected 
yesterday's  written  manuscript,  brought  the  edges 
down  on  the  table  in  successive  clicks,  until  they 
made  an  even,  rectangular  pile.  He  laid  his 
pencils  out  in  a  row.  He  changed  the  point  in 
his  penholder.  He  moved  the  ink-bottle.  But 
this  availed  his  spirit  nothing.  "  I  am  incredibly 
stupid,"  he  said  aloud.  His  voice  was  low,  but  it 
rang  as  hollowly  as  though  he  were  from  another 
world.  "  If  you  could  only  speak  to  me.  Can't 
you  speak  to  me?  " 

He  did  not  raise  his  eyes.  But  he  waited  for  a 
long  interval,  during  which  the  silence  in  the  room 
became  so  heavy  and  cold  that  it  almost  blotted 
out  the  sunlight. 

"  But  have  patience  with  me.  I  want  to  serve 
you.  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  want  to  serve 
you.  I  give  you  rny  word,  I'll  get  it  sometime  and 
I  think  not  too  late.  I'll  kill  myself  if  I  don't. 
I'm  putting  all  I  am  and  all  I  have  into  trying  to 
understand.  Don't  give  me  up.  It's  only  because 
I'm  flesh  and  blood." 

He  stopped  and  raised  his  eyes. 

The  room  was  empty. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  241 

That  afternoon  Lindsay  took  a  walk  so  long, 
so  devil-driven  that  he  came  back  streaming  per- 
spiration from  every  pore.  Mrs.  Spash  regarded 
him  with  a  glance  in  which  disapproval  struggled 
with  sympathy.  "  I  don't  know  as  you'd  ought  to 
wear  yourself  out  like  that,  Mr.  Lindsay.  Later, 
perhaps  you'll  need  all  your  strength — " 

"  Very  likely  you're  right,  Mrs.  Spash,"  Lind- 
say agreed.  "  But  I've  been  trying  to  work  it 
out." 

Mrs.  Spash  left  as  usual  at  about  seven.  By 
nine,  the  last  remnant  of  the  long  twilight,  a  col- 
laboration of  midsummer  with  daylight-saving, 
had  disappeared.  Lindsay  lighted  his  lamp  and 
sat  down  with  Lutetia's  poems.  The  room  was 
peculiarly  cheerful.  The  beautiful  Murray  side- 
board, recently  discovered  and  recovered,  held  its 
accustomed  place  between  the  two  windows.  The 
old  Murray  clock,  a  little  ship  swinging  back  and 
forth  above  its  brass  face,  ticked  in  the  corner. 
The  old  whale-oil  lamps  had  resumed  their  stand, 
one  at  either  end  of  the  mantel.  Old  pieces,  old 
though  not  Lutetia's — they  were  gone  irretriev- 
ably— bits  picked  up  here  and  there,  made  the 


242  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

deep  sea-shell  corner  cabinet  brilliant  with  the 
color  of  old  china,  glimmery  with  the  shine  of  old 
pewter,  sparkly  with  the  glitter  of  old  glass. 
Many  chairs — Windsors,  comb-backs,  a  Boston 
rocker — filled  the  empty  spaces  with  an  old-time 
flavor.  In  traditional  places,  high  old  glasses  held 
flowers.  The  single  anachronism  was  the  big, 
nickel,  green-shaded  student  lamp. 

Lindsay  needed  rest,  but  he  could  not  go  to  bed. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  was  exhausted,  but 
he  knew  equally  well  that  he  was  not  drowsy.  His 
state  of  mind  was  abnormal.  Perhaps  the  three 
large  cups  of  jet-black  coffee  that  he  had  drunk  at 
dinner  helped  in  this  matter.  But  whatever  the 
cause,  he  was  conscious  of  every  atom  of  this  exag- 
gerated spiritual  alertness;  of  the  speed  with 
which  his  thoughts  drove ;  of  the  almost  insupport- 
able mental  clarity  through  which  they  shot. 

"  If  this  keeps  up,"  he  meditated,  "  it's  no  use 
my  going  to  bed  at  all  tonight.  I  could  not  pos- 
sibly sleep." 

He  found  Lutetia's  poems  agreeable  solace  at 
this  moment.  They  contained  no  anodyne  for  his 
restlessness;  but  at  least  they  did  not  increase  it. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  243 

Her  poetry  had  not  been  considered  successful,  but 
Lindsay  liked  it.  It  was  erratic  in  meter ;  irregular 
in  rhythm.  But  at  times  it  astounded  him  with  a 
delicate  precision  of  expression;  at  moments  it 
surprised  him  with  an  opulence  of  fancy.  He  read 
on  and  on — • 

Suddenly  that  mental  indicator — was  it  a 
flutter  of  his  spirit  or  merely  a  lowering  of  the 
spiritual  temperature  ? — apprised  him  that  he  was 
not  alone.  .  .  .  But  as  usual,  after  he  realized 
that  his  privacy  had  been  invaded,  he  continued  to 
read;  his  gaze  caught,  as  though  actually  tied,  by 
the  print.  .  .  .  After  a  while  he  shut  the 
book.  .  .  .  But  he  still  sat  with  his  hand  clutch- 
ing it,  one  finger  marking  the  place.  .  .  .  He 
did  not  lift  his  eyes  when  he  spoke  .  ...  . 

"  Tell  the  others  to  go,"  he  demanded. 

After  a  while  he  arose.  He  did  not  move  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room  nor  did  he  glance  once 
in  that  direction.  But  on  his  side,  he  paced  up  and 
down  with  a  stern,  long-strided  prowl.  He  spoke 
aloud. 


1244  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  Listen  to  me !  "  His  tone  was  peremptory. 
"  We've  got  to  understand  each  other  tonight.  I 
can't  endure  it  any  longer;  for  I  know  as  well  as 
you  that  the  time  is  getting  short.  You  can't  speak 
to  me.  But  I  can  speak  to  you.  Lutetia,  you've 
got  to  outdo  yourself  tonight.  You  must  give  me 
a  sign.  Do  you  understand?  You  must  show  me. 
Now  summon  all  that  you  have  of  strength,  what- 
ever it  is,  to  give  me  that  sign — do  you  under- 
stand, all  you  have.  Listen !  Whatever  it  is  that 
you  want  me  to  do,  it  isn't  here.  I  know  that 
now.  I  know  it  because  I've  been  here  two 
months —  Whatever  it  is,  it  must  be  put  through 
somewhere  else.  An  idea  came  to  me  this  morn- 
ing. I  spent  all  the  afternoon  thinking  it  out. 
Maybe  I've  got  a  clue.  It  all  started  in  New 
York.  He  tried  to  get  it  to  me  there.  Listen! 
Tell  me  !  Quick !  Quick !  Quick !  Do  you  want 
me  to  go  to  New  York?  " 

The  answer  was  instantaneous.  As  though 
some  giant  hand  had  seized  the  house  in  its  grip, 
it  shook.  Shook  for  an  infinitesimal  fraction  of 
an  instant.  Almost,  it  seemed  to  Lindsay,  walls 
quivered;  panes  rattled;  shutters  banged,  doors 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  245 

slammed.  And  yet  in  the  next  infinitesi- 
mal fraction  of  that  instant  he  knew  that  he 
had  heard  no  tangible  sound.  Something  more 
exquisite  than  sound  had  filled  that  unmeasur- 
able  interval  with  shattering,  deafening  con- 
fusion. 

Lindsay  turned  with  a  sharp  wheel;  glared  into 
the  dark  of  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

Lindsay  dashed  upstairs  to  his  desk.  There 
he  found  a  time-table.  The  ten-fifteen  from 
Quinanog  would  give  him  ample  time  to  catch  the 
midnight  to  New  York.  He  might  not  be  able 
to  get  a  sleeping  berth;  but  the  thing  he  needed 
least,  at  that  moment,  was  sleep.  In  fact,  he 
would  rather  sit  up  all  night.  He  flung  a  few 
things  into  his  suitcase;  dashed  off  a  note  to  Mrs. 
Spash.  In  an  incredibly  short  time,  he  was  strid- 
ing over  the  two  miles  of  road  which  led  to  the 
station. 

There  happened  to  be  an  unreserved  upper 
berth.  It  was  a  superfluous  luxury  as  far  as  Lind- 
say was  concerned.  He  lay  in  it  during  what  re- 
mained of  the  night,  his  eyes  shut  but  his  spirit 


246  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

more  wakeful  than  he  had  ever  known  it. 
"  Every  revolution  of  these  wheels,"  he  said  once 
to  himself,  "  brings  me  nearer  to  it,  whatever  it 
is."  He  arose  early;  was  the  first  to  invade  the 
washroom;  the  first  to  step  off  the  train;  the  first 
to  leap  into  a  taxicab.  He  gave  the  address  of 
Spink's  apartments  to  the  driver.  "  Get  there 
faster  than  you  can!  "  he  ordered  briefly.  The 
man  looked  at  him — and  then  proceeded  to  break 
the  speed  law. 

Washington  Square  was  hardly  awake  when 
they  churned  up  to  the  sidewalk.  Lindsay  let  him- 
self in  the  door;  bounded  lightly  up  the  two 
flights  of  stairs;  unlocked  the  door  of  Spink's 
apartment.  Everything  was  silent  there.  The 
dust  of  two  months  of  vacancy  lay  on  the  furnish- 
ings. Lindsay  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
contemplating  the  door  which  led  backward  into 
the  rest  of  the  apartment. 

;<  Well,  old  top,  you're  not  going  to  trouble  me 
any  longer.  I  get  that  with  my  first  breath.  I've 
done  what  she  wanted  and  what  you  wanted  so 
far.  Now  what  in  the  name  of  heaven  is  the  next 
move  ?  " 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  247 

He  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  waiting, 
listening. 

And  then  into  his  hearing,  stretched  to  its  final 
capacity,  came  sound.  Just  sound  at  first;  then 
a  dull  murmur.  Lindsay's  hair  rose  with  a 
prickling  progress  from  his  scalp.  But  that  mur- 
mur was  human.  It  continued. 

Lindsay  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  hall.  The  murmur  grew 
louder.  It  was  a  woman's  voice;  a  girl's  voice; 
unmistakably  the  voice  of  youth.  It  came  from 
the  little  room  next  to  Spink's  apartment. 

Again  Lindsay  listened.  The  monotone  broke ; 
grew  jagged;  grew  shrill;  became  monotonous 
again.  Suddenly  the  truth  dawned  on  him.  It 
was  the  voice  of  madness  or  of  delirium. 

He  advanced  to  the  door  and  knocked.  No- 
body answered.  The  monotone  continued.  He 
knocked  again.  Nobody  answered.  The  mono- 
tone continued.  He  tried  the  knob.  The  door  was 
locked.  With  his  hand  still  on  the  knob,  he  put 
his  shoulder  to  the  door ;  gave  it  a  slow  resistless 
pressure.  It  burst  open. 

It  was  a  small  room  and  furnished  with  the  con- 


248  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

ventional  furnishings  of  a  bedroom.  Lindsay  saw 
but  two  things  in  it.  One  was  a  girl,  sitting  up  in 
the  bed  in  the  corner;  a  beautiful  slim  creature 
with  streaming  loose  red  hair;  her  cheeks  vivid 
with  fever  spots;  her  eyes  brilliant  with  fever- 
light.  It  was  she  who  emitted  the  monotone. 

The  other  thing  was  a  miniature,  standing 
against  the  glass  on  the  bureau.  A  miniature  of  a 
beautiful  woman  in  the  full  lusciousness  of  a 
golden  blonde  maturity. 

The  woman  of  the  miniature  was  Lutetia 
Murray. 

The  girl — * 


X 

SHE  felt  that  the  room  was  full  of  sunshine. 
Even  through  her  glued-down  lids  she  caught  the 
darting  dazzle  of  it.  She  knew  that  the  air  was 
full  of  bird  voices.  Even  through  her  drowse- 
filmed  ears,  she  caught  the  singing  sound  of  them. 
She  would  like  to  lift  her  lids.  She  would  like  to 
wake  up.  But  after  all  it  was  a  little  too  easy  to 
sleep.  The  impulse  with  which  she  sank  back  to 
slumber  was  so  soft  that  it  was  scarcely  impulse. 
It  dropped  her  slowly  into  an  enormous  dark,  a 
colossal  quiet. 

Presently  she  drifted  to  the  top  of  that  dark 
quiet.  Again  the  sunlight  flowed  into  the  channels 
of  seeing.  Again  the  birds  picked  on  the  strings 
of  hearing.  By  an  enormous  effort  she  opened 
her  eyes. 

She  stared  from  her  bed  straight  at  a  window. 
A  big  vine  stretched  films  of  green  leaf  across  it. 
It  seemed  to  color  the  sunshine  that  poured  on- 
to the  floor — green.  She  looked  at  the  window 

249 


250  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

for  a  long  time.  Presently  she  discovered  among 
the  leaves  a  crimson,  vase-like  flower. 

;t  Why,  how  thick  the  trumpet-vine  has 
grown !  "  she  said  aloud. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  a  movement  at 
her  side.  But  that  movement  did  not  interest  her. 
She  did  not  fall  into  a  well  this  time.  She  drifted 
off  on  a  tide  of  sleep.  Presently — perhaps  it  was 
an  hour  later,  perhaps  five  minutes — she  opened 
her  eyes.  Again  she  stared  at  the  window. 
Again  the  wonder  of  growth  absorbed  her 
thought;  passed  out  of  it.  She  looked  about  the 
room.  Her  little  bedroom  set,  painted  a  soft 
creamy  yellow  with  long  tendrils  of  golden  vine, 
stood  out  softly  against  the  faded  green  cartridge 
paper. 

"  Why !  Why  have  they  put  the  bureau  over 
there  ?"  she  demanded  aloud  of  the  miniature  of 
Glorious  Lutie  which  hung  beside  the  bureau. 
With  a  vague  alarm,  her  eyes  sped  from  point  to 
point.  The  dado  of  Weejubs  stood  out  as  though 
freshly  restored.  But  all  her  pictures  were  gone ; 
the  four  colored  prints,  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn, 
Winter — each  the  head  of  a  little  girl,  decked 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  251 

with  buds  or  flowers,  fruit  or  furs,  had  vanished. 
The  faded  squares  where  they  had  hung  showed 
on  the  walls.  Oh,  woe,  her  favorite  of  all,  "  My 
Little  White  Kittens,'*  had  disappeared  too.  On 
the  other  hand — on  table,  on  bureau,  and  on  com- 
mode-top— crowded  the  little  Chinese  toys. 

'  Why,  when  did  they  bring  them  in  from  the 
Dew  Pond?  "  she  asked  herself,  again  aloud. 

With  a  sudden  stab  of  memory,  she  reached  her 
hand  up  on  the  wall.  How  curious !  Only  yes- 
terday she  could  scarcely  touch  the  spring;  now 
her  hand  went  far  beyond  it.  She  pressed.  The 
little  panel  opened  slowly.  She  raised  herself  in 
bed  and  looked  through  the  aperture. 

Glorious  Lutie's  room  was  stark — bare,  save 
for  a  bed  and  her  long  wooden  writing-table. 

Her  thoughts  flew  madly  .  .  .  suddenly  her 
whole  acceptance  of  things  crumbled.  Why !  She 
wasn't  Cherie  and  eight.  She  was  Susannah  and 
twenty-five;  and  the  last  time  she  had  been  any- 
where she  had  been  in  New  York.  .  .  .  Light- 
nings of  memory  tore  at  her  .  .  .  the  Car- 
bonado Mining  Company  .  .  .  Eloise  .  .  . 
a  Salvation  Army  woman  on  the  street  .  .  .. 


252  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

roofers.  Yet  this  was  Blue  Meadows.  She 
did  not  have  to  pinch  herself  or  press  on  her 
sleepy  eyelids.  It  was  Blue  Meadows.  The 
trumpet-vine,  though  as  gigantic  as  Jack's  bean- 
stalk, proved  it.  The  painted  furniture  proved  it. 
The  Chinese  toys  proved  it.  Yes,  and  if  she 
wanted  the  final  touch  that  clinched  all  argument, 
there  beside  the  head  of  the  bed  was  the  maple 
gazelle.  This  really  was  not  the  final  proof.  The 
final  proof  was  human  and  it  entered  the  room  at 
that  moment  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Spash.  And 
Mrs.  Spash — in  her  old,  quaint  inaccurate  way — 
;was  calling  her  as  Cherry. 
Susannah  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  I  feel  so  much  better  now,"  Susannah 
said  after  a  little  talk;  more  sleep;  then  talk  again. 
"  I'm  going  to  be  perfectly  well  in  a  little  while. 
I  want  to  get  up.  And  oh,  dear  Mrs.  Spash — do 
you  remember  how  sometimes  I  used  to  call  you 
Mrs.  Splash?  I  do  want  as  soon  as  possible  to 
see  Mr.  Lindsay  and  his  cousin — Miss  Stock- 
bridge,  did  you  say?  I  want  to  thank  them,  of 
course.  How  can  I  ever  thank  them  enough? 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  253 

And  I  want  to  talk  to  him  about  the  biography. 
Oh,  I'm  sure  I  can  give  him  so  much.  And  I  can 
make  out  a  list  of  people  who  can  tell  him  all  the 
things  you  and  I  don't  remember ;  or  never  knew. 
And  then,  in  my  trunk  in  New  York,  is  a  package 
of  all  Glorious  Lutie's  letters  to  me.  I  think  he 
will  want  to  publish  some  of  them;  they  are  so 
lovely,  so  full  of  our  games — and  jingles,  and  even 
drawings.  Couldn't  I  sit  up  now?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  Mrs.  Spash  said. 
"  You've  slept  for  nearly  twenty-six  hours, 
Cherry  You  waked  up  once — or  half-waked  up. 
We  gave  you  some  hot  milk  and  you  went  right 
to  sleep  again." 

"  It's  going  to  make  me  well — just  being  at 
Blue  Meadows,"  Susannah  prophesied.  u  If  I 
could  only  stay —  But  I'm  grateful  for  a  day,  an 
hour." 


Later,  she  came  slowly  down  the  stairs — one 
hand  on  the  rail,  the  other  holding  Mrs.  Spash's 
arm.  She  wore  her  faded  creamy-pink,  creamy- 
yellow  Japanese  kimono,  held  in  prim  plaits  by  the 
broad  sash,  a  big  obi  bow  at  the  back.  Her  red 


254  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

hair  lay  forward  in  two  long  glittering  braids. 
Her  face  was  still  pale,  but  her  eyes  overran  with 
a  lucent  blue  excitement.  It  caught  on  her  eye- 
lashes and  made  stars  there. 

A  slim  young  man  in  flannels;  tall  with  a  mus- 
cular litheness;  dark  with  a  burnished  tan;  hand- 
some; arose  from  his  work  at  the  long  refectory 
table.  He  came  forward  smiling — his  hand  out- 
stretched. "  My  cousin,  Miss  Stockbridge,  has 
run  in  to  Boston  to  do  some  shopping,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see 
you  up,  or  how  glad  she  will  be."  He  took  her 
disengaged  arm  and  reinforced  Mrs.  Spash's  ef- 
forts. They  guided  her  into  a  big  wing  chair. 
The  young  man  found  a  footstool  for  her. 

"  I  suppose  I'm  not  dreaming,  Mr.  Lindsay," 
Susannah  apprised  him  tremulously.  "  And  yet 
how  can  it  be  anything  but  a  dream?  I  left  this 
place  fifteen  years  ago  and  I  have  never  seen  it 
since.  How  did  I  get  back  here  ?  How  did  you 
find  me?  How  did  you  know  who  I  was?  And 
what  made  you  so  heavenly  good  as  to  bring  me 
here?  I  remember  fragments  here  and  there — 
Mrs.  Spash  tells  me  I've  had  the  flu." 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  255 

Lindsay  laughed.  ;<  That's  all  easily  ex- 
plained," he  said  with  a  smoothness  almost 
meretricious.  "  I  happened  to  go  to  New  York 
on  business.  As  usual  I  went  to  my  friend  Spar- 
rel's  apartment.  You  were  ill  and  delirious  in 
the  next  room.  I  heard  you;  forced  the  door  open 
and  sent  at  once  for  a  doctor.  He  pronounced 
it  a  belated  case  of  flu.  So  I  telephoned  for  Miss 
Stockbridge;  we  moved  you  into  my  apart- 
ment and  after  you  passed  the  crisis — thank 
God,  you  escaped  pneumonia  I — I  asked  the  doctor 
if  I  could  bring  you  over  here.  He  agreed  that  the 
country  air  would  be  the  very  best  thing  for  you, 
and  yet  would  not  advise  me  to  do  it.  He  thought 
it  was  taking  too  great  a  risk.  But  I  felt — I  can't 
tell  you  how  strongly  I  felt  it — that  it  would  be 
the  best  thing  for  you.  My  cousin  stood  by  me, 
and  I  took  the  chance.  Sometimes  now,  though,  I 
shudder  at  my  own  foolhardiness.  You  don't  re- 
member— or  do  you? — that  I  went  through  the 
formality  of  asking  your  consent." 

"  I  do  remember  now — vaguely,"  Susannah 
laughed.  "  Isn't  it  lucky  I  didn't — in  my  weak- 
ness— say  no?  " 


256  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

Lindsay  laughed  again.  "  I  shouldn't  have 
paid  any  attention  to  it,  if  you  had.  I  knew  that 
this  was  what  you  needed.  You  were  sleeping 
then  about  twenty-five  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 
four.  So  one  night  we  brought  you  in  a  taxi  to 
the  boat  and  took  the  night  trip  to  Boston.  The 
boat  was  making  its  return  trip  that  night,  but  I 
bribed  them  to  let  you  stay  on  it  all  day  until  it 
was  almost  ready  to  sail.  Late  in  the  afternoon, 
we  brought  you  in  an  automobile  to  Quinanog. 
You  slept  all  the  way.  That  was  yesterday  after- 
noon. It  was  dark  when  we  got  here.  You  didn't 
even  open  your  eyes  when  I  carried  you  into  the 
house.  In  the  meantime  I  had  wired  Mrs.  Spash 
— and  she  fixed  up  your  room,  as  much  like  the 
way  it  used  to  be  when  you  were  a  child,  as  she 
could  remember." 

"  It's  all  too  marvelous,"  Susannah  murmured. 
New  brilliancies  were  welling  up  into  her  tur- 
quoise eyes,  the  deep  dark  fringes  of  lash  could 
not  hold  them;  the  stars  kept  dropping  off  their 
tips.  Fresh  spurts  of  color  invaded  her  face. 
Nervously  her  long  white  hands  pulled  at  her  cop- 
pery braids. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  257 

"  There  are  so  many  questions  I  shall  ask  you," 
she  went  on,  "  when  I'm  strong  enough.  But  some 
I  must  ask  you  now.  How  did  you  happen  to 
come  here?  And  when  did  the  idea  of  writing 
Glorious  Lutie's — my  aunt's — biography  occur  to 
you?  And  how  did  you  come  to  know  Mrs. 
Spash?  Where  did  you  find  the  little  Chinese 
toys?  And  my  painted  bedroom  set?  And  the 
sideboard  there?  And  the  six-legged  highboy? 
Oh  dear,  a  hundred,  thousand,  million  things. 
But  first  of  all,  how  did  you  know  that,  now  being 
Susannah  Ayer,  I  was  formerly  Susannah 
Delano  ?" 

"  There  was  the  miniature  of  Miss  Murray 
hanging  on  your  wall.  That  made  me  sure — in — 
in  some  inexplicable  way — that  you  were  the  little 
lost  Cherry.  And  of  course  we  went  through  your 
handbag  to  make  sure.  We  found  some  letters 
address  to  Susannah  Delano  Ayer.  But  will  you 
tell  me  how  you  do  happen  to  be  Susannah  Ayer, 
when  you  were  formerly  Susannah  Delano,  alias 
Cherry — or  Cherie?  " 

"  I  went  from  here  to  Providence  to  live  with  a 
large  family  of  cousins.  Their  name  was  Ayer, 


258  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

and  I  was  so  often  called  Ayer  that  finally  I  took 
the  name."  Susannah  paused,  and  then  with  a 
sudden  impulse  toward  confidence,  she  went  on. 
"  I  grew  up  with  my  cousins.  I  was  the  youngest 
of  them  all.  The  two  oldest  girls  married,  one 
a  Californian,  the  other  a  Canadian.  I  haven't 
seen  them  for  years.  The  three  boys  are  scattered 
all  over  everywhere,  by  the  war.  My  uncle  died 
first;  then  my  aunt.  She  left  me  the  five  hun- 
dred dollars  with  which  I  got  my  business 
training." 

The  look  of  one  who  is  absorbing  passionately 
all  that  is  being  said  to  him  was  on  Lindsay's  face. 
But  a  little  perplexity  troubled  it.  "  Glorious 
Lutie  ?  "  he  repeated  interrogatively. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  Susannah  murmured.  ;'  I 
always  called  her  Glorious  Lutie.  She  always 
called  me  Glorious  Susie — that  is  when  she  didn't 
call  me  Cherie.  And  we  had  a  game — the 
Abracadabra  game.  When  she  was  telling  me  a 
story — her  stories  were  marvels;  they  went  on  for 
days  and  days — and  she  got  tired,  she  could 
always  stop  it  by  saying,  Abracadabra!  If  I 
didn't  reply  instantly  with  Abracadabra,  the  story 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  259 

stopped.  Of  course  she  always  caught  my  little 
wits  napping — I  was  so  absorbed  in  the  story  that 
I  could  only  stutter  and  pant,  trying  to  remember 
that  long  word." 

"  That's  a  Peter  Ibbetson  trick,"  Lindsay  com- 
mented. 

The  talk,  thus  begun,  lasted  for  the  three  hours 
which  elapsed  before  Miss  Stockbridge's  return. 
Two  narratives  ran  through  their  talk;  Lindsay's, 
which  dealt  with  superficial  matters,  began  with 
his  return  to  America  from  France;  Susannah's, 
which  began  with  that  sad  day,  fifteen  years  ago, 
when  she  saw  Blue  Meadows  for  the  last  time. 
But  neither  narrative  went  straight.  They  zig- 
zagged; they  curved,  they  circled.  Those  devia- 
tions were  the  result  of  racing  up  squirrel  tracks 
of  opinion  and  theory;  of  little  excursions  into  the 
allied  experiences  of  youth;  even  of  talks  on 
books.  Once  it  was  interrupted  by  the  noiseless 
entry  of  Mrs.  Spash,  who  deposited  a  tray  which 
contained  a  glass  of  milk,  a  pair  of  dropped  eggs, 
a  little  mound  of  buttered  toast.  Susannah  sud- 
denly found  herself  hungry.  She  drained  her 


260  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

glass,  ate  both  eggs,  devoured  the  last  crumb  of 
toast. 

After  this,  she  felt  so  vigorous  that  she 
fell  in  with  Lindsay's  suggestion  that  she  walk 
to  the  door.  There  she  stood  on  the 
door-stone  for  a  preoccupied,  half-joyful,  half- 
melancholy  interval  studying  the  garden.  Then, 
leaning  on  his  arm,  she  ventured  as  far  as  the  seat 
under  the  copper-beech.  Later,  even,  she  went 
to  the  barn  and  the  Dew  Pond.  Before  she 
could  get  tired,  Lindsay  brought  her  back,  re- 
establishing her  in  the  chair.  Then — and  not  till 
then — and  following  another  impulse  to  confide 
in  Lindsay,  Susannah  told  him  the  whole  story  of 
the  Carbonado  Mining  Company.  Perhaps  his 
point  of  view  on  that  matter  gave  her  her  second 
accession  of  vitality.  He  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  during  her  narrative;  his  hands,  fists.  But 
he  laughed  their  threats  to  scorn.  "  Now  don't 
give  another  thought  to  that  gang  of  crooks!  "  he 
adjured  her.  "  I  know  a  man  in  New  York — a 
lawyer.  I'll  have  him  look  up  that  crowd  and  put 
the  fear  of  God  into  them.  They'll  probably  be 
flown  by  that  time,  however.  Undoubtedly  they 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  261 

were  making  ready  for  their  getaway.  Don't 
think  of  it  again.  They  can't  hurt  you  half  as 
much  as  that  bee  that's  trying  to  get  in  the  door." 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  staring  fixedly  down 
at  his  own  manuscript  on  the  table.  **  By  God!  " 
he  burst  out  suddenly,  "  I've  half  a  mind  to  beat 
it  on  to  New  York.  I'd  like  to  be  present.  I'd 
have  some  things  to  say — and  do." 

Somewhere  toward  the  end  of  this  long  talk, 
"  I've  not  said  a  word  yet,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  Susan- 
nah interpolated  timidly,  "  of  how  grateful  I  am 
to  you — and  your  cousin.  But  it's  mainly  because 
I've  not  had  the  strength  yet.  I  don't  know  how 
I'm  going  to  repay  you.  I  don't  know  how  I'm 
even  going  to  tell  you.  What  I  owe  you — just  in 
money — let  alone  eternal  gratitude." 

"  Now,  that's  all  arranged,"  Lindsay  said 
smoothly.  "  You  don't  know  what  a  find  you 
were.  You're  an  angel  from  heaven.  You're  a 
Christmas  present  in  July.  For  a  long  time  I've 
realized  that  I  needed  a  secretary.  Somebody's 
got  to  help  me  on  Lutetia's  life  or  I'll  never  get  it 
done.  Who  better  qualified  than  Lutetia's  own 
niece  ?  In  fact  you  will  not  only  be  secretary  but 


262  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

collaborator.  As  soon  as  you're  well  enough, 
we'll  go  to  work  every  morning  and  we'll  work 
together  until  it's  done." 

Susannah  leaned  back,  snuggled  into  the  soft 
recess  of  the  comfortable  chair.  She  dropped  her 
lids  over  the  dazzling  brilliancy  of  her  eyes.  "  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  say  no.  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  some  proper  pride  about  accepting  so  much 
kindness.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  show  some  firm- 
ness of  mind,  pawn  all  my  possessions  and  get  back 
to  work  in  New  York  or  Boston.  Girls  in  novels 
always  do  those  things.  But  I  know  I  shall  do 
none  of  them.  I  shall  say  yes.  For  I  haven't 
been  so  happy  since  Glorious  Lutie  died." 

"  Oh,"  Lindsay  exclaimed  quickly  as  though 
glad  to  reduce  this  dangerous  emotional  excite- 
ment. "There  comes  the  lost  Anna  Sophia 
Stockbridge.  She's  a  dandy.  I  think  you'll  like 
her.  It's  awfully  hard  not  to." 

The  instant  Susannah  had  disappeared  with 
Miss  Stockbridge  up  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Spash  ap- 
peared in  the  Long  Room.  Apparently,  she  came 
with  a  definite  object — an  object  in  no  way  con- 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  263 

nected   with  the    futile   dusting  movements   she 
began  to  emit. 

Lindsay  watched  her. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Spash's  eyes  came  up;  met  his. 
They  gazed  at  each  other  a  long  moment;  a  gaze 
that  was  luminous  with  question  and  answer. 

"  She's  gone,"  Lindsay  announced  after  a 
while. 

Mrs.  Spash  nodded  briskly. 

"  She'll  never  come  back,"  Lindsay  added. 

Again  Mrs.  Spash  nodded  briskly. 
'  They've  all  gone,"  Lindsay  stated. 

For  the  third  time  Mrs.  Spash  briskly  nodded. 

;<  When  Cherie  came,  they  left,"  Lindsay  con- 
cluded. 

"  They'd  done  what  they  wanted  to  do,"  Mrs. 
Spash  vouchsafed.  "  Brought  you  and  Cherry  to- 
gether. So  there  was  no  need.  She  took  them 
away.  She'd  admire  to  stay.  That's  like  her. 
But  she  don't  want  to  make  the  place  seem — well, 
queer.  So,  as  she  allus  did,  she  gives  up  her 
wish." 

"  Mrs.  Spash,"  Lindsay  exploded  suddenly 
after  a  long  pause,  "  we've  never  seen  them.  You 


264  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

understand  we've  never  seen  them;  either  of  us. 

They  never  were  here." 

Mrs.  Spash  nodded  for  the  fourth  time. 

That  night  after  his  cousin  and  his  guest  had 
gone  to  bed,  Lindsay  wandered  about  the  place. 
The  moon  was  big  enough  to  turn  his  paths  into 
streams  of  light.  He  walked  through  the  flower 
garden ;  into  the  barn ;  about  the  Dew  Pond.  The 
tallest  hollyhocks  scarcely  moved,  so  quiet  was  the 
night.  The  little  pond  showed  no  ripple  except 
a  flash  of  the  moonlight.  The  barn  was  a  cavern 
of  gloom.  Lindsay  gazed  at  everything  as  though 
from  a  new  point  of  view. 

An  immeasurable  content  filled  him. 

After  a  while  he  returned  to  the  house.  His 
picture  of  Lutetia  Murray  still  hung  over  the 
mantel  in  the  living-room.  He  gazed  at  it  for  a 
long  while.  Then  he  turned  away.  As  he  looked 
down  the  length  of  the  living-room,  there  was  in 
his  face  a  whimsical  expression,  half  of  an 
achieved  happiness,  half  of  a  lurking  regret. 
"This  house  has  never  been  so  full  of  people 
since  I've  been  here,"  he  mused,  "  and  yet  never 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  265 

was  it  so  empty.  My  beloved  ghosts,  I  miss  you. 
But  you've  not  all  gone  after  all.  You've  left  one 
little  ghost  behind.  Lutetia,  I  thank  you  for  her. 
How  I  wish  you  could  come  again  to  see.  .  .  . 
But  you're  right.  Don't  come!  Not  that  I'm 
afraid.  You're  too  lovely — " 

His  thoughts  broke  halfway.  They  took  an- 
other turn.  "  I  wonder  if  it  ever  happened  to 
any  other  man  before  in  the  history  of  the  world 
to  see  the  little-girl  ghost  of  the  woman — ' 

Blue  Meadows  had  for  several  weeks  now  been 
projecting  pictures  from  its  storied  past  into  the 
light  of  everyday.  Could  it  have  projected  into 
that  everyday  one  picture  from  the  future,  it 
would  have  been  something  like  this. 

Susannah  came  into  the  south  living-room. 
Her  husband  was  standing  between  the  two 
windows. 

"  Davy,"  she  exclaimed  joyfully,  "  I've  located 
the  lowboy.  A  Mrs.  Norton  in  West  Hassett 
owns  it.  Of  course  she's  asking  a  perfectly  pro- 
hibitive price,  but  of  course  we've  got  to  have  it." 


266  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

"  Yes,"  Lindsay  answered  absently,  "  we've  got 
to  have  it." 

u  I'm  glad  we  found  things  so  slowly,"  Susan- 
nah dreamily.  "  It  adds  to  the  wonder  and 
magic  of  it  all.  It  makes  the  dream  last  longer. 
It  keeps  our  romance  always  at  the  boiling 
point." 

She  put  one  arm  about  her  husband's  neck  and 
kissed  him.  Lindsay  turned;  kissed  her. 

"  At  least  we  have  the  major  pieces  back," 
Susannah  said  contentedly.  "  And  little  Lutetia 
Murray  Lindsay  will  grow  up  in  almost  the  same 
surroundings  that  Susannah  Ayer  enjoyed.  Oh — 
today — when  1  carried  her  over  to  the  wall  of  the 
nursery,  she  noticed  the  Weejubs ;  she  actually  put 
her  hand  out  to  touch  them." 

"  Oh,  there's  something  here  for  you — from 
Rome — just  came  in  the  mail,"  Lindsay  ex- 
claimed. "  It's  addressed  to  Susannah  Delano 


too." 


"  From  Rome ! "  Susannah  ejaculated. 
"  Susannah  Delano !  "  She  cut  the  strings  of 
the  package.  Under  the  wrappings  appeared — 
swathed  in  tissue  paper — a  picture.  A  letter 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  267 

dropped  from  the  envelope.  Susannah  seized  it; 
turned  to  the  signature. 

"Garrison  Monroe!"  she  ejaculated.  "  Oh, 
dear  dear  Uncle  Garry,  he's  alive  after  all !  "  She 
read  the  letter  aloud,  the  tears  welling  in  her 
eyes. 

"  How  wonderful!  "  she  commented  when  she 
finished.  "  You  see,  he's  apparently  specialized  in 
tomb-sculpture." 

She  pulled  the  tissue  paper  from  the  picture. 
Their  heads  met,  examining  it. 

"  Oh,  how  lovely!"  Susannah  exclaimed  in  a 
hushed  voice.  And  "It's  beautiful!"  Lindsay 
agreed  in  a  low  tone. 

It  was  the  photograph  of  a  bit  of  sculptured 
marble;  a  woman  swathed  in  rippling  draperies 
lying,  at  ease,  on  her  side.  One  hand,  palm  up- 
ward, fingers  a  little  curled,  lay  by  her  cheek;  the 
other  fell  across  her  breast.  A  veil  partially  ob- 
scured the  delicate  profile.  But  from  every  veiled 
feature,  from  every  line  of  the  figure,  from  every 
fold  in  the  drapery,  exuded  rest. 

"It's  perfect!"  Susannah  said,  still  in  a  low 
tone.  "  Perfect.  Many  a  time  she's  fallen  asleep 


268  OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

just  like  than  when  we've  all  been  talking  and 
laughing.  When  she  slept,  her  hand  always  lay 
close  to  her  face  as  it  is  here.  She  always  wore 
long  floating  scarves.  You  see  he  had  to  do  her 
face  from  photographs  ...  and  memory.  .  .  . 
He's  used  that  scarf  device  to  conceal  .  .  . 
How  beautiful !  How  beautiful !  " 

There  came  silence. 

"  Mrs.  Spash  says  he  was  in  love  with  her," 
Susannah  went  on.  "  Of  course  I  was  too  young. 
I  didn't  realize  it.  But  it's  all  here,  I  think.  Did 
you  notice  that  part  of  the  letter  where  he  says 
that  for  the  last  year  or  two  his  mind  has  been 
full  of  her?  And  of  all  his  life  here?  That's 
very  pathetic,  isn't  it?  Now  there  will  be  a  fit- 
ting monument  over  her.  .  .  .  He  says  it  will 
be  here  in  a  few  months.  We  must  send  him 
pictures  when  it's  put  on  her  grave.  How  happy 
it  makes  me  !  He  says  he's  nearly  eighty.  .  .  . 
How  beautiful.  .  .  .  You're  not  listening  to 
me,"  she  accused  her  husband  with  sudden  indig- 
nation. But  her  indignation  tempered  itself  by  a 
flurry  of  little  kisses  when,  following  the  direc- 
tion of  his  piercing  gaze,  she  saw  it  ended  on 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  269 

the  miniature  which  hung  beside  the  secretary. 
"  Looking  at  Glorious  Lutie !  "  she  mocked  ten- 
derly. "How  that  miniature  fascinates  you! 
Sometimes,"  she  added,  obviously  inventing  whim- 
sical cause  for  grievance,  u  sometimes  I  think 
you're  as  much  in  love  with  her  as  you  are  with 


me." 


"  If   I    am,"    Lindsay   agreed,    "  it's   because 
there's  so  much  of  you  in  her." 


THE  END 


